Run for Your Life
by Aurilia
Summary: Harry Potter xover. Take one decision by a concerned deputy headmistress, add one werewolf and one boy-hero, shake thoroughly, sprinkle liberally over the US. Add Winchesters and let stew. Enjoy! Not slash, M for language.
1. No Time for Goodbye

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by Eric Kripke; various production elements including, but not limited to, Warner Brothers and the CW network. Both the title for this fic and the title for part one are lyrics from _Get Out Alive_ (© Zomba Recording, LLC & Sony BMG Music Entertainment & Three Days Grace. Track 7 of the 'One-X' album.) And the title for part two is a line from _Hiding Place_ (© MCA Records & Bedlam. Off the 'Into the Coals' album). No money is being made from this intellectual exercise and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** So, about a year and a half ago, I had an idea which didn't pan out all that well. What was the idea? Why, having Remus raise Harry in the US, of course. Unfortunately, I couldn't get all the details to fall into place, but that particular musebunny wouldn't leave me alone. Eventually, it started talking with the musebunny which spawned the Once is Happenstance trilogy. This is what resulted. Though this is another SPN/HP crossover, I do hope it's obvious that it in no way pertains to the Once is Happenstance stories.

**Story info/spoilers:** This is an AU crossover between Harry Potter and Supernatural (I know I'm being repetitive here, but I don't want angry readers coming back later and saying I didn't warn them that this was a crossover). A choice made changes the story told in the Harry Potter books. There will be aspects of all canon books included, but no real spoilers; for example, I loathe the concept of the horcruxes, and so they will not be part of this tale. Likewise, with Supernatural, there may or may not be references later in the story to events as they were revealed in any of the thus-produced episodes of the series – this means all episodes from the Pilot right through No Rest for the Wicked might be spoiled. The timeline for this story diverges from that of either canon on November 1, 1981. This will likewise _not_ be slash – any mention of slash will only be in passing and _won't _go into much, if any, detail. What there _will _be a lot of, especially once John Winchester makes his appearance, will be bad language; so if that sort of thing offends you, you can take yourself elsewhere. There will also be large jumps in time – I don't particularly like having to go over every single detail about how this person met that person, and so when this happens, just go with the relationships as I've presented them. There may or may not be flashbacks, if it becomes necessary.

* * *

**Run for Your Life**

_Part One - No Time for Goodbye_

_November 2, 1981_

Minerva checked the clock on her mantelpiece for what had to have been the hundredth time that evening – well… early morning, now. The clock read 'way past bedtime'. She knew what she wanted to do, but was having difficulty reconciling that with her previously unquestioned support of Headmaster Dumbledore. She sighed and resumed chasing her thoughts around her skull.

_That 'family' – if it can rightly be called that, is… well, I don't even like _thinking_ language like that, but I'm right. I _know_ I'm right. If little Harry stays with them like Albus wants, I can only see two paths for the child, neither of which are promising. The first is that his aunt and uncle will end up spoiling the dear child as horribly as they've spoilt their own. A travesty Albus was trying to avoid in the first place by placing him in their care._

_The second… I don't even want to think about it! Lily's told – no, _used_ to tell me about her sister. Merlin, I'm going to miss her very much…_ She took a moment to wipe her eyes on a crumpled hanky. _The second path is the direct opposite of the first. Lily had told me on numerous occasions how much her sister hated anything magical. I know that Albus likes to believe that everyone is really _good_ at heart – except, maybe, for Voldemort – but the world isn't really like that. Just from what I watched today, well, yesterday, I know that what Lily's told me is true. I just can't see that woman accepting her nephew _without_ holding some sort of grudge against the poor boy._

Minerva sighed again, and nodded at the clock. It now read, 'time to act'.

She pulled a tartan-colored shawl tightly around her shoulders and replaced her tall, pointed hat with the wide brim on top of her graying hair, which was still secured in its customary bun. Purposefully, she strode through the quiet hallways of the school, reaching the owlery in record time. Once there, she penned a quick note to one of her all-time-favorite students, using a scrap of parchment and a pencil stub she'd had in her pockets.

While the plain brown barn owl winged its way out into the night, Minerva hurried down the stone staircase and nearly broke into a run across the Hogwarts lawns. She apparated to her destination the moment her feet were outside the wards.

As she didn't have the benefit of Albus' Put-Outer, she made sure to appear in the deepest shadows she could find along the tall brick wall where she'd spent her day watching the goings-on of Number 4, Private Drive. Hidden by the shadows, she shifted to her feline form and raced through the yard to the front stoop. Letting out a cat-sigh of relief, she easily located Harry Potter in his bundle of blankets. She returned to her normal human self, picked him up, and apparated again, this time using the cover of the darkness of the front stoop in which to hide her magic from any prying muggle eyes.

* * *

Remus was pacing in the dilapidated ruin that once was the sitting room of the Shrieking Shack. He hadn't been able to sleep; who would have? He'd just returned from a mission for the Order when he received some news from Albus. Bad news. In two sentences, Remus' life had turned upside down.

"_Remus, Lily and James were killed by Voldemort late last night. Sirius was captured after having apparently killed Peter this morning; the aurors say he was laughing."_

Three of his four closest – in truth, _only_ – friends had been killed, and the fourth was directly responsible. _How could Sirius have done it?_ Remus wondered, yet again. _He and James were like _brothers_! He'd said over and over again that he _hated_ his family's view on the whole pureblood-thing. How could Sirius do it? And why? Why, damnit!_

Remus growled and punched a hole in the cracked plaster wall. "Why, Sirius? Why did you betray your friends? Your _family_ – you said as much yourself! God damnit, _why_?"

The tears he'd been trying to hold off all day threatened to escape his control, but he swallowed them down. Taking a couple of deep breaths to calm himself further, he righted an overturned moth-eaten armchair and gingerly lowered himself onto it. Just as his body made contact with the piece of furniture, he was startled by the appearance of an owl. He jerked, and that proved too much for the much-abused chair to take; its legs collapsed in a creaking crunch of tired wood and splinters. Remus ended up lying on his back, staring up at the moldering ceiling. "Figures."

Ignoring Remus' angered expression, the owl landed on his chest, dropped the fragment of parchment it carried, hooted, and took off again. Remus picked up the parchment, not even bothering to get up, and quickly read it.

_Remus,_

_For all that I generally trust Albus' judgment, I believe him to have made a gross error in deciding to leave young Harry with his aunt and uncle. Meet me at the Shrieking Shack no later than five this morning, if you can. I will only be able to wait an hour or so._

_Minerva_

Remus had just enough time to wonder just what Minerva was up to when there was the popping noise of someone apparating in somewhere off to his right and behind him. He tipped his head up and saw an upside-down Minerva standing with a somewhat bemused smile on her face. She appeared to be holding something, but Remus wasn't sure what. "Somehow, I don't think that Moody would approve of your current position."

Remus rolled his eyes. "Moody can go bugger himself for all I care."

Minerva tutted, "Come now, Remus. Brave face and all that."

Remus sighed a little and levered himself out of the mess he'd made of the chair. "What's with the note?" he asked, brushing himself off.

Minerva took a deep breath and began explaining how she'd watched the Dursley family all day, and how when she'd voiced her opinions to Albus, he'd ignored her. "I thought that perhaps Harry would be best served with the one remaining person his parents counted as family." She held out the bundle of blankets she'd been holding. "Go on, Remus. Take him."

Remus' heart felt lodged somewhere behind his tonsils. "But… but…"

"But what?"

"What of the Ministry?"

"They needn't ever know. Take Harry, Remus. I know you, and I trust you."

Remus swallowed, "What about the…"

"I'm sure you'll manage, Remus. You're intelligent – you can and will figure something out for the full moons. I cannot, and more importantly, _will _not allow him to be raised by those disgusting examples of humankind I observed today."

Remus wanted to do what Minerva was asking of him – wanted nothing more, in fact. But something was holding him back. "Where would we go? Harry could hardly grow up _here_," he gestured to the squalor around them.

Minerva shook her head, "I don't know, Remus. And you probably shouldn't tell me in any case. Albus will likely fire me as it stands; there's no sense in giving him more information than necessary at this point."

Remus was now the one to shake his head, "No, Minerva. I doubt he'd fire you."

The bundle of blankets stirred a little and bright green eyes peeked out. "Moony!" Harry squealed and squirmed to get down. "Moony! Moony! Moony!" Since squirming wasn't getting him anywhere, he tried another tactic. He reached out with both arms and let out a long, drawn out, "Moooooooony!"

Remus' resolve broke and he took the toddler from Minerva. She smiled. "That's more like it." Minerva reached into her pocket and withdrew a small packet of papers. "Since being made Deputy Headmistress, I have often had to make decisions in Albus' stead – and not all of them have been for the school. I've made sure that Harry's legal guardianship has been transferred to you, Remus. It's all in these papers. All you need do is sign them and they become binding. They also become confidential, so no one but the two of us will ever know."

Remus took the packet of paperwork with his free hand and tucked them into his pocket. He came to a decision and met Minerva's eyes. "No, Minerva. You're wrong."

"How so?"

He deftly slipped his wand out of the pocket of his jacket and smiled a little. "You know the only way to keep a secret safe is to not tell it to anyone, right?" She nodded a little, confusion clouding her eyes. "And so, Minerva, I must say goodbye." He raised the wand and saw comprehension dawn in McGonagall's eyes. She smiled a sad, worn grin and nodded. After his whispered _obliviate_, he apparated Harry and himself to another safe location, not far from Diagon Alley in London.

The flat into which Remus and Harry arrived was little more than a closet above a small secondhand bookshop across the street from the Leaky Cauldron. It had a bed that pulled down out of the wall, a chest of drawers, and a tiny sink. There weren't even any windows, only the door to the hallway. Remus was an acquaintance of the squib-owner of the shop, and had been given permission to stay in the flat whenever he liked. Remus flicked the light switch and pulled the bed out of the wall. He sat Harry down on the bed's surface before removing the packet of paperwork Minerva had given him from his pocket.

He felt bad about altering Minerva's memory like that, but he really didn't have any choice. He had too much respect for her to allow her to lose any standing in Albus' eyes. He hoped that the memory he'd left her with – of wanting to check in on him, only to find that he wasn't at the shack – would be enough to cover for however much time she'd been gone from Hogwarts. If it wasn't… Well, he'd worry about that if it ever came up. _To tell the truth_, he thought, _I wouldn't be at all surprised if my obliviation of Minerva didn't do more than buy us a couple of days' time – after all, won't Albus be keeping his all-seeing eye on Harry? Particularly since he left the boy at his aunt and uncle's?_

Taking a seat next to Harry, he began reading through the paperwork. Despite Harry's earlier energy in sighting 'Uncle Moony,' he was already fast asleep once more. Basically, the paperwork – authenticated with Albus' own signature, provided by his deputy – was precisely what Minerva had claimed it was. Simply by signing the documents, Remus would become Harry's sole guardian, with all the obligations, duties, and benefits thereof; there was something to be said for the power of being the Chief Warlock of the International Confederation of Wizards. Per Lily and James' wishes, Harry's guardian would be provided with a sum of a hundred galleons a month to go towards Harry's care. That eased one of Remus' many worries – he wouldn't have to figure out a way to live on the meager funds he was normally able to scrape together. He would finish worrying about the rest of his concerns when he'd had some sleep. Regardless of his restlessness of earlier in the evening, he suddenly found himself rather tired.

He removed his threadbare jacket and toed out of his boots, grabbing the muggle ball-point he kept in his breast pocket before nonchalantly tossing the jacket into the far corner. He scrawled his name in the appropriate places on the guardianship papers, laid down next to Harry, and was asleep in moments.

The next morning, Remus awoke to the slightly-blurred sight of Harry peering into his face from less than a couple of inches away. The toddler had peeled back Remus' left eyelid and was staring at him.

Seeing that both of 'Uncle Moony's ' eyes were now open, Harry let go of Remus' eyelid. "Mownin'."

_Merlin, he's a morning person, isn't he?_ Remus blinked several times to wet his dried-out eye and yawned. "Morning, Harry."

"Hunwy."

Remus nodded and headed to the sink, hastily scrubbed his face, and sighed. _What now?_ "Moony! Hunwy!"

Remus was pretty sure that was toddler-speak for 'hungry,' though what he was supposed to do about it, he wasn't sure. He didn't have time to think about it, for just at that moment there was a knock on the door. Remus opened it to reveal his squib-acquaintance.

"Thought I heard you pop in this morning, Remus," Graziella stated, smiling somewhat crookedly. "Though I can't blame you for the hour. I'd just got back from Diggle's fireworks show, myself."

"Graziella." Remus' brain still hadn't quite kicked on.

"Ah. You must have just woken. Hope it wasn't me," her smile grew a little. She was very tall, towering over Remus, and had iron-gray hair that was still as thick and full as it had been when she'd been young.

"Ah, no, Graziella. You didn't wake me."

"That's good, then. I've some coffee ready downstairs. What with everything that's happened in the last two days, I've decided not to open until noon today. It's just half-past eight right now. Help yourself whenever you get that far." She turned to leave, but Remus' brain had finally switched into go-mode.

"Graziella? Can I ask you a favor?"

She turned back to face him, "Depends on what it is, dear-heart. You know that."

"Well… I need to get some things done in Diagon this morning – I don't know how long I'll be."

"And?"

Tired of being ignored, Harry chose that moment to pipe up with, "Moony! Hunwy! Now!"

Graziella hadn't noticed the other occupant of the flat until just then. Her eyes widened significantly. "As I live and breathe… That's _him_, isn't it?"

Remus sighed. _I should have known this would happen._ "Yes. Could you watch him for me?"

Graziella nodded, "It would be an honor."

After introducing Harry to Graziella, and promising Harry that the woman would be able to locate some breakfast for him, Harry quietly consented to being carried off by the unfamiliar person. Remus paused long enough to pull on his boots and jacket – making sure his pen and the paperwork were both safely ensconced in a pocket – before rushing downstairs. He paused again at the coffee pot and filled a styrofoam cup to take with him. Drinking the coffee quickly, he made his way to the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley.

He went straight to Gringotts. His business there didn't take long to complete, and before an hour had passed, he had a new wallet into which his guardianship stipend would be automatically deposited as whatever type of currency – magical world or muggle – Remus requested. Tucking the new wallet into his pocket, he turned from the goblin with whom he'd been doing business and began walking out of the bank. Just before he reached the doors, he saw Lucius Malfoy step inside, looking uncharacteristically harried and stressed. Remus quickly stepped out of the older wizard's way as the man hurried past. A thought struck him just as he left the building. _Somehow I don't think that the UK is a very nice place to be right now. There's bound to be Death Eaters who are more than a little upset over the downfall of their lord and master. The Ministry isn't capable of catching them all – James and Sirius_, here he had to swallow a little to get the lump out of his throat, _weren't the only aurors that… died… recently. That's not to mention the numbers of aurors who won't ever work the field again. Frankly, I'm surprised that Moody is still working, what with losing his leg like that._ Remus kept his gaze focused at a point on the ground some six feet directly ahead of him, ignoring the people he passed, while he made his way back to the Leaky Cauldron.

By the time he returned to Dog-Eared Pages, he'd fully worked himself to the conclusion that he and Harry would likely have to leave Britain. After a couple of weeks at the most, he was certain that Albus, as well as any lingering Death Eaters, would be hunting Harry. It was his duty that they, the Death Eaters in particular, never located the boy.

The bell over the shop's door jangled merrily as he entered. "Graziella?" Remus called out.

"Back here!" came the reply. Remus followed the direction of the voice to a tiny kitchen tucked under the stairs to the second floor. There was a small table with two mismatched chairs. Harry was sitting on the table, slowly gnawing his way through a massive chocolate biscuit, and Graziella was sitting on the vinyl-upholstered metal chair nearest the door. "All done in Diagon, dearie?"

"Yeah," Remus replied, slumping down onto the hard, wooden chair that was missing one of the slats in the back.

"What's the matter?" Graziella noticed Remus' sober expression. "I'd've thought everyone would be extraordinarily happy – even you, Remus."

Remus reluctantly met Graziella's brown eyes. "Ignoring the fact that all four of my closest and dearest friends are now dead – or as good as dead – just _what_ should I be happy about?" His tone was just a touch bitter.

Graziella winced, "Sorry, honey. I'd forgotten how close you were with the Potters, Pettigrew, and Black."

Remus rested his head in his hands, his elbows propped up on the table. He massaged his temples and tried to breathe deeply, hoping to forestall the headache he could almost feel. "Besides all that, I suddenly realized that _they_ will be looking for Harry, wanting to finish the job Voldemort started."

Graziella flinched a little at the Dark Lord's name. "The thought had occurred to me, as well."

"I just don't know if I can do this," he motioned to Harry, who was still gnawing on the biscuit, blithely unaware of the conversation occurring right in front of him.

"Sure you can, Remus."

Remus let out a mirthless little chuckle. "Oh?"

Graziella grinned, "Of course. You will because you have to."

Remus barely refrained from rolling his eyes at the woman. "Glad one of us thinks so. I was prepared to be 'Uncle Remus' until the end of time. I am _not_ prepared to raise him!"

Graziella gestured to the only picture on the wall – it was obviously a muggle black-and-white of a much younger version of herself with a tall man and three small children. "Few of us are ever really _prepared_ to raise kids, hon. Most of us end up doing just fine in the end, though. I happen to think Amelia turned out rather well, don't you?"

Remus smiled a little. "Yeah. I heard she's next-in-line for the position of Head of the MLE. Merlin knows, she deserves it. She brought in how many Death Eaters over the last ten years? Sixty? Seventy?"

"Fifty-three; the seven she caught as a rookie don't count since she had Moody's help," Graziella replied. "But, like I said, there aren't too many people who are ready to be parents when they suddenly find that they are. You can and _will_ do fine."

"What of the Death Eaters who will inevitably find some way to either evade capture or who have the political guff to buy their way out of prison? How on earth am I to keep Harry from them? They're ruthless…"

Graziella shrugged, "Simple: don't be where they are."

This time, Remus _did_ roll his eyes. "Easy for you to say."

"Oh, come now, Remus. This world is much too large for them to be _everywhere_."

"And just where would _you_ go?" he asked.

"Well," Graziella drew the word out, thinking quickly. "I've always heard that the US is a good place to disappear. Canada, too, for that matter."

"Hmm…" Remus suddenly realized that Graziella was quite right; the world really was too large for the Death Eaters to have agents _everywhere_, and not even Albus would be able to find a moving target in a country as large and heavily-populated as the US. "You might be right."

Graziella smirked, "Of course I am. Now, did you want some more coffee?"

* * *

Over the next day and a half, Remus used approximately a quarter of that first stipend payment – as well as his meager savings – to purchase some necessities for Harry. Fully half of the stipend went towards plane tickets to JFK International Airport in New York as well as passports for the both of them. He was reluctant to use the remainder of the money for any reason; he and Harry would need _something_ to live on until the next payment or until Remus could locate a job. He'd already decided that they would be sticking to muggle venues as it wouldn't do for someone to recognize his lycanthropy.

When the plane finally landed, all Remus could feel was an inordinate measure of relief. It was about noon, local time, and the weather was brightly cheerful for all that it was early November. Trees were sporting leaves nearly every shade of the rainbow, despite the fact that they grew mainly in large planter-boxes or in specific park areas. Seeing the fees for taxi service painted on the side of one of what seemed to be hundreds of cabs outside the airport, Remus did some quick calculations and came to the conclusion that this misadventure was very poorly researched on his part. Carrying Harry, he set out on foot – their shrunken luggage had been in his pocket ever since Remus had packed earlier that morning.

It was nearing six o'clock and dusk before Remus finally located a park area where the people already present didn't make him nervous. _Maybe I ought to have opted for Chicago or Houston,_ he thought. He bought a couple of hot-dogs from a vendor, a can of cola for himself, and a bottle of Yoo-Hoo for Harry. They both made short work of their meal. When he was done, Harry turned hopeful eyes on Remus, "Pway?"

Remus nodded and swung Harry onto his shoulders before heading towards some swings. There were several other people with children present, and he soon discovered that the oddly-shaped swings on one end were designed with toddlers in mind. He was absently pushing Harry in the swing, worrying about where they were going to stay for the night, when he heard a woman's voice right next to him. "That's something you don't see every day."

"Pardon?" Remus turned his head and saw a short woman with long, curly, dark hair and wearing patched jeans and a slightly-frayed, green sweater.

The woman smiled, "Ooh, and he's British, too! My day just keeps getting better and better."

Remus shook his head as though to dislodge water from his ears. "Pardon?"

She laughed, "Sorry, kid. Didn't mean to confuse ya. I'm Raven." She offered her hand.

Remus shook it a little limply, "Remus Lupin. What were you saying?"

She shrugged a little. "Nothing much. Just that it ain't all that often ya see a kid your age out with a baby. He yours?"

Remus grabbed the edge of the blue plastic swing and lifted Harry out of it. "Yes, but at the same time, a resounding no."

Raven quirked an eyebrow, "Huh?"

Remus' internal honesty – which, in truth had always been one of his strongest features – prompted him to reply before he could come up with something better. "He's the son of two of my best friends who passed away recently. So, in a way, he _is_, but really, he's _not_."

"Ah," Raven replied. "Lemme guess, you just got here today, and still ain't found a hotel yet."

Remus nodded. "How did you –"

"Come along, then. I ain't from here, just passin' through myself, but I have been here before and know my way around pretty well. I'll find ya somewhere ta stay for the night, an' if ya are nice, I just might give ya some good advice, too." She turned on her heel and began striding across the nearly-deserted park. Noticing that Remus was lagging, she turned her head and called over her shoulder, "Come on, Wolf! We ain't got all night!"

Alarmed, Remus hurried to catch up with her. "Why did you just call me 'Wolf'?"

Raven shrugged again, "It's your name, ain't it? Romulus and Remus. Lupin, lupus, wolf. Latin. I like word etymology."

Remus' pulse slowed back to the appropriate range. "Oh."

She stopped next to a massive, old, rusty, lime-green pickup truck which had a white shell over the bed and a small camper-trailer hitched to it. "Where's your stuff, or did it get stolen already?"

Remus bit his lip. He'd hoped no one would notice his and Harry's lack of luggage. "Um…" he stalled, reaching into his pocket with his free hand for his wand.

He'd just retrieved it when Raven laughed. "Okay, then, pro'ly a pocket, yeah?"

Remus blinked in surprise. "Um… Witch?"

Raven laughed again. "Not exactly, but I do know a thing or two 'bout it." She retrieved her keys from her pocket and unlocked the driver's door. "Go 'round the other side, an' I'll unlock Frank for ya."

Remus decided that Raven – most likely the oddest woman he'd _ever_ met – was probably not too much of a threat and seemed genuinely honest. He hurried around to the passenger side of the truck and climbed in when Raven unlocked the door. "Frank?"

"My truck. Short for Frankenstein. Has the body of a '57 International, but has the engine of a Ford, and the tranny of a Chevy. Friend of mine down South Dakota way built 'im for me. No idea how he got all the dif'rent parts ta fit together, but he did it. Runs better than he looks, though." She started the truck, which backfired noisily before coughing into life.

"You're sure this thing is safe?" Remus asked nervously. Harry, for his part, giggled at the loud noise.

"Absolutely," Raven replied. "Lemme think a sec…" She glanced at her watch. "It's half-six, an' we're about an hour from any sort of affordable hotel… Hmm… You set on stayin' in the Big Apple?"

Remus shrugged, though in the gathering twilight it was hard to see. "Not particularly."

Nodding, Raven put the truck into gear and turned on the lights. "Alrighty then. I can work with that. I s'pose ya have some sorta cash with ya?"

"A bit, yeah."

"Good. You can pay for some of the gas. Was on my way south for the winter. Spent most of the summer up in N'England. Thought I'd check if a friend of mine was in Charleston, then head 'cross to the Sou'west. I was thinkin' on maybe stayin' in New Mexico or Arizona this winter."

Remus vaguely recalled his world geography lessons from primary school. "Isn't that rather far?"

"Not really. I s'pose it all depends on perspective. The US is a big place; it ain't uncommon for someone to drive a thousand miles or more just for vacation. Personally, I don't really have an address. I live in the camper and make my way however I can. Modern gypsy, I s'pose."

"Ah, I see."

While deftly navigating the New York traffic, Raven chatted brightly about most anything that came to mind. About the same time that they exited the Lincoln Tunnel on the Jersey side, Remus knew that she'd managed to see something she really shouldn't have when she was fifteen, and had been 'on the run' ever since, but the details of that encounter were, either by accident or design, hazy. She also implied that Raven wasn't her real name, but Remus didn't press the issue. He fell asleep about halfway across New Jersey, still listening to her chatter.

* * *

_Part Two – Show Me a Hiding Place_

_November 2, 1983_

For all that the night had been lit by a full moon, it was obvious that the sky was getting lighter; dawn was fast approaching. _I should start thinking about heading back_, Remus thought, but returned his attention to the corpse in front of him. It was a cow. Probably brown-and-white, or maybe black-and-white. Remus had found her as she was, lying mostly on her side, her legs stiffly held at angles to her body. It was the fourth such corpse he had located that night. An odd smell lingered in the air, an unappealing mix of ozone and sulfur and… Yes, Dark magic.

_What is going on here?_ Remus trotted away from the cow-corpse, cutting through pastures and wheat-fields on his way back to town. _There was Dark magic on all four of those cows, but it didn't smell like wand-magic._ Reaching the outskirts of Lawrence, Remus stuck to lingering shadows between buildings as he wormed his way to his destination. The digital display on a bank clock appeared to be broken, as its temperature display kept flickering between 47 and 49 degrees. Remus ignored it and poured on a little more speed. He really should have been back an hour ago, but had gotten side-tracked by the dead cattle.

He finally made it to the house he needed. "You, Mr. Lupin, are _late_." Remus whined in apology, and the door was held open for him. "But, yes, I see you've got a good excuse. Hurry yourself up to the guest room. We'll talk when you wake up."

_Thanks, Missouri,_ he thought at her before doing precisely what she told him to.

* * *

A couple of neighborhoods over from where Remus and Harry were staying for a few days with their good friend, another house was just starting to rise to greet the day, ignorant that this would be the last time they did so as a family.

They were a normal family – even if they hadn't yet gotten around to putting up the white picket fence and were holding off on getting a dog until their youngest could appreciate it, too. Mom woke up first, just like always, and checked on her baby and then the older boy before getting dressed for the day and heading downstairs to put together breakfast. About half an hour after she got out of bed, Dad followed, but his first stop (after checking the boys, of course) was the bathroom. Usually the older boy, Dean, woke up about the same time Dad was finishing up, and the two of them went into the baby's room to say 'good morning'. Today was no different.

The three men of the family then went downstairs to join Mom for breakfast. Dad would read the paper while Dean dug through the box of Chocolate-Frosted Sugar Bombs for the toy. When breakfast was over, Dad left for work and Mom set about cleaning the kitchen before moving on to clean up her boys and get them dressed.

Mom spent the morning playing with Dean and the baby, Sammy. Dean was getting really close to being able to go through the whole alphabet without help. After lunch, the three of them went for a walk, down to the small grocery store a few blocks over, and back – Mom had needed to pick up a few things for supper.

Though the paper had forecast a clear, sunny day with a high around sixty-two, sometime when Mom wasn't looking, thick clouds had rolled in. It was warmer than the paper had said it would be, too. At work, Dad turned to one of his coworkers and mentioned something about how 'those idiots couldn't forecast yesterday's weather and get it right'. Neither Mom nor Dad knew, but it wasn't a weatherman's shortcomings behind the unseasonable warmth of the day, nor the heavy, low clouds which flashed through with intermittent lightning, promising rain, yet not delivering on that promise.

After the boys' naps that afternoon, instead of going to the park like they did on sunny days when it wasn't too cold, Mom and Dean worked together on a batch of chocolate-chip cookies. Sammy, too young to help, sat in a swing in the corner of the kitchen and watched, gurgling to himself.

About the same time that Dad was on his way home from work, a particularly loud thunderclap startled Mom and Dean and made baby Sammy giggle loudly. Mom saw how the thunder, though amusing to the baby, was scaring her oldest and gave the boy a hug. "Don't worry, sweetheart. It's just the sound of the angels bowling." She couldn't possibly have been further from the truth.

* * *

Something was winding up the dogs in the neighborhood. Remus couldn't blame them for their bout of nerves – he was feeling decidedly uneasy, too. He'd woken just a few minutes before and the clock on Missouri's guest room's bedside table said that it was already half past four in the afternoon. The amount of light filtering into the room, however, was much darker. Remus felt as though it was seven or eight at night, and that feeling, at direct odds to the actual time, had him even more in conflict with himself. He wandered over to the window and stared out at the ongoing lightning flickers. They made the hair on the back of his neck stand on edge.

"Harry's been asking for you."

Remus startled and spun around, seeing Missouri standing in the doorway. He nodded, "He always does."

"Before you ask – yeah, I can feel it too. And no, I don't know what it all means. Never felt anything like this before and I can't say as I like it. It feels…"

"Wrong," Remus supplied.

Missouri nodded, "It does at that." Giving herself a little shake, she let out a huff of air and said, "Supper's just about ready. Beef stew."

Remus squashed that sense of _wrong_ and _Dark_ in which his mind had been bathing and grinned, "So _that's_ why I dreamt of an army of carrots and onions all day." He strode from the disquieting dark of the window and followed the black lady down the stairs to the kitchen. "You know, Missouri, if you were fifteen years younger…"

Missouri allowed herself to laugh, "Oh, shush you!"

And so the evening played out, both the adults in the house filling in the long, uneasy hours with forced chatter and bantering. The act melted quickly after Harry fell asleep, cuddled on the lap of his 'Grammissouri', halfway through a child's version of the Arthurian legend.

Remus, hoping that a walk would help clear some of the sense of impending doom from his heart, slipped into a light jacket – the late evening had proven just as unseasonably warm as the day had been – and was assured by his good friend that she would see Harry safely to bed.

* * *

Back at the completely normal – for a few more hours, yet – white, two-story suburban home just a few small neighborhoods away from Missouri Mosley's house, the totally normal – for a few more hours, yet – family was preparing for bed. It was only a few minutes past eight, but it was more for the benefit of four year-old Dean that the entire house was going to bed. Mom would only stay up another hour or so – baby Sammy often woke several times in the night for one reason or another, but it was getting better with every week that passed by. Dad would nearly always stay up until eleven or midnight, watching old movies on the television. Tonight was really no different.

Mom gave Dean a bath and dressed him in his favorite pair of blue-and-brown checkered flannel pajamas, then carried him to his younger brother's nursery. "Come on," she said, flicking on the light. "Let's say goodnight to your brother." Mom sat Dean down on the floor.

Dean hurried up next to Sammy's crib, climbed up on a small wooden stool that was there just for that purpose, and kissed the top of little Sammy's head. "'Night, Sam," he said.

"Goodnight, love," Mom cooed to the baby, leaning down close and caressing Sammy's wispy baby-hair.

Dad arrived in the nursery, smiling indulgently at his family. "Hey, Dean," he said.

Dean scrambled down off of the stool and raced across the room, "Daddy!"

Dad scooped Dean up with a playful little bounce, "Hey, buddy. So, what do you think? Think Sammy's ready to toss around a football yet?"

Dean grinned, he knew his daddy was just joking, "No, daddy!"

Dad echoed Dean's 'of course not' tone, "No."

Mom, smiling at the antics of her boys, paused next to them and patted Dean's back. "You got him?"

Dad nodded, "I got him." After Mom left the room, Dad, carrying Dean, gave the older boy a hug as he directed a 'sweet dreams, Sam' to the crib before exiting the nursery, flicking off the light as he went.

When his family was out of the room, baby Sammy gurgled contentedly to himself, watching as the baseball-themed mobile spun above him, regardless of the fact that no one had wound it. A clock, straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting, decorated with cars and airplanes, ticked and tocked on the wall, a biplane pendulum rocking back and forth over the twelve. The clock stopped.

A crescent-moon nightlight started flickering a little in the corner, making the shadows of the stuffed animals on a neighboring shelf dance.

Sam giggled.

An indeterminate amount of time after lying down to sleep, Mom woke up to faint crying on the baby monitor which sat next to her side of the bed. It was a little hard to hear because of all the static on it, but she'd been meaning to replace the batteries and so thought nothing of it. She reached up and flicked on the bedside light, "John?" He wasn't there. It didn't happen often, but sometimes the baby monitor woke Dad before Mom. Again, Mom didn't think anything of it.

She got out of bed and sleepily walked across the hall to the nursery. It wasn't very bright in the room, and she could see Dad already at the crib. "John, is he hungry?"

Dad shushed her with a raised finger. "All right," Mom replied and turned to go back to her interrupted sleep. Before she could get back to her room, she noticed the hall light at the top of the stairs flickering. She wandered over to it, thinking it might just be a loose bulb or something like that. She tapped on the shade a couple of times, but that didn't fix the problem. _I'll have John take a look at it tomorrow,_ she thought, turning to go back to her room.

Before she could, however, she noticed a blue glow filtering up the stairs, along with faint television chatter. She mentally sighed and promised herself that she would scold her husband in the morning for forgetting to turn the television off. Still more than a little sleepy, she went down the stairs, stopping suddenly at what she saw in the living room.

It took a moment for her mind to process it, but when it did, all vestiges of sleep fled from her mind. Dad was asleep in his armchair, snoring softly, the remote dangling limply from a hand that hung off the side of the chair, fingertips nearly brushing the carpet.

She turned and raced back up the stairs. "Sammy!" She came to a panicked halt just inside the nursery.

Moments later, Dad was ripped from his snooze by a shrill scream of, "No!"

"Mary?" Dad shouted, nearly falling out of his chair. "Mary!" he shouted again, sprinting up the stairs. He shouted it a third time as he rushed down the hallway. He burst into the nursery and looked around. _What the hell? Was it just a nightmare?_ He let himself calm down a little and approached baby Sammy, still safely tucked in his crib. "Hey, Sammy," he whispered. "You okay?" He reached into the crib to caress his baby boy, but halted suddenly as something dripped onto the back of his hand.

In the low light, it took a moment for Dad to figure out what it was.

Blood.

Half-convinced he was still asleep, Dad looked up. What he saw was impossible. It didn't make it any less true, though.

Mom, still wearing her white nightgown, was pinned to the ceiling, splayed out, almost as though her personal gravity inverted after an accidental slip on a wet tile floor. A line of red crossed her abdomen; it is from there that the drops of blood fell. Dad, startled backwards, nearly falling to the floor. "No, Mary!" it wasn't another shout, but it wasn't for a lack of trying on Dad's part.

Dad saw Mom breathe once, twice, and then the ceiling erupted into flame. Dad watched in horror for a moment before instinct managed to convince him to _run_. He snagged baby Sammy out of the crib and staggered out into the hall, nearly tripping over Dean. The shouting had roused the four year-old, but he was confused.

"Daddy!" Dad knelt quickly, shoving baby Sammy into his brother's arms, "Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don't look back!" After Dean hesitated, Dad barked, "Now, Dean, go!"

Clutching tightly to his brother, Dean hurried to do as his daddy told him.

Spinning around, Dad went to go back into the nursery, to save his wife, but even as he shouted her name one last time, the nursery became so engulfed in flame, it was impossible to see through them.

Dean, once he finally reached the outside, stopped in the front yard to look up at the flickering light coming from Sammy's nursery window. "It's okay, Sammy," he said to his brother.

Out of nowhere, Dad came running, not even stopping as he scooped up his sons, "I've gotcha." The windows exploded outward just as the three of them reached the sidewalk.

It was amazing, really, how quickly 'normal' could go up in smoke.

* * *

Remus' walk wasn't doing much to remove that sense of doom from his mind. He had wandered aimlessly for hours to no avail, and then, just as slowly as it had built up all day, it suddenly disappeared. Looking up, even the clouds were now absent. Sirens were coming closer, however. Remus took a good long look to see where his feet had led him, and saw a house, the top story of which was giving off flickering light and more than just a little smoke, just a couple of blocks away.

Remus sprinted the short distance, hoping that no one was hurt and vague notions of lending a hand to the firemen – not that they'd know, mind – chasing each other through his thoughts. He stopped short when he saw the family who undoubtedly belonged to the house. A man wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants with bare feet sat on the hood of an old, black car parked across the street, clinging to a small, blanket-wrapped bundle and being clung to by a boy who was still in his pajamas and barely older than Harry. He watched as one of the early responders to the 911 call wrapped a thick woolen blanket around the family.

He crept closer, not wanting to alarm them, but wanting to get a little closer, so that when he sent his spell to tame the inferno raging within the house, it would hit its mark. He was only a few feet from the family as the fire trucks pulled up, along with an ambulance, but none of this seemed to make any difference to the dad. He stared, with glassy eyes, at the fire.

The boy, though… _ He_ noticed Remus. He stared at the werewolf with wide, solemn eyes. Remus was a little torn, he couldn't help if a muggle was watching, but the fire was burning too hot just at that moment for the firemen to be able to put it out easily. He raised a finger to his lips in a 'shh' gesture and aimed his wand at the house. The boy nodded a little. Remus whispered the spell and its effects were almost immediately apparent, though there was no connecting flash of light connecting wand to fire. The flames, which had previously sported hearts of white or blue, cooled to normal red and orange.

Turning his attention back to the family, now that his help had been applied, Remus noticed a lingering touch of Darkness, not unlike what he sometimes still caught from the remains of the scar on Harry's forehead, but not totally similar, either. Without a doubt, _this_ family was the reason behind the day's uncomfortable sense. He didn't know why, but he aimed to find out.

* * *

John didn't respond the first two times the rescue workers tried to get his attention. He was still trying desperately to make sense of what had just happened, but his mind kept coming back to a single word. _Mary_. Therefore, he didn't notice when a somewhat scruffy, tall man spoke with one of the police officers who had shown up. He also didn't notice that man returning to a spot on the sidewalk, mere feet from him and his boys. For all John knew, the man was simply another of their neighbors, pulled from their beds by the sounds of sirens and the macabre human tendency to want to know _who_ and _what_ before going home to a sense of _thank God it's not me_. He could hear the neighbors whispering things like _the Winchesters' place_ and _hear Mary didn't make it_ and _hope John's gonna be okay_, but they didn't really register. They weren't important.

The tall man in the somewhat threadbare jacket stepped a little closer, "John?"

John didn't reply, just like he'd ignored the rescue workers.

"John, don't you think you ought to get your boys in out of the weather? Since those clouds cleared off, it's going to get cold tonight."

Looking back on it years later, John often wondered if it was the man's obviously un-Kansian accent, or the fact that he managed to drag his attention to his boys that made him pay attention to the voice, or if it had been something else entirely, but it didn't matter at that moment. The soft, polite tones in an accent that brought to mind late-night public television broadcasts actually caught John's attention. He looked to his sons, the baby fussing, but no longer crying, and the older one clinging to his sleeve with a white-knuckled grip.

"Yeah," his voice was almost soundless, but the other man could still hear it. "Yeah," he repeated, this time a little louder. "Should get the boys out of the cold."

"This your car?" the other man asked, not unkindly. John nodded. "Okay. The keys inside?" John nodded once more – the keys were where he normally kept them, tucked between the visor and the ceiling of the car. His own coat was in the car, too, his wallet still tucked in the right-hand pocket where he'd stashed it after buying lunch that afternoon.

It didn't take at all long for Remus to tuck John and his boys into the passenger side of the car and let the officer he'd spoken to minutes earlier know that John had taken him up on his offer. Silently praying that the car wasn't a stick – he still hadn't quite gotten the knack of shifting – he slid into the driver's seat and found the keys.

It was a short, but silent, drive back to Missouri's house.

Missouri, as Remus had been expecting, was waiting for them on the porch swing. Before John could even begin to object, she'd taken both boys upstairs, speaking softly to Dean all the while. Remus led John to the back of the house, to the brightly-lit kitchen. He helped himself to a cup of tea; the fact that it was still fresh spoke volumes regarding Missouri's abilities. He poured one for John, too, and sat it in front of the man, who had sunk onto one of the chairs around the breakfast table. "Drink it, John, don't just stare at it," Remus gently chided. "It may not help much, but maybe it can melt a little of that numb I know you're feeling."

John took the cup and let the heat warm his hands. The man was right – it didn't help much, but it did quiet his thoughts enough that a little sense was starting to sink back in. "I didn't catch your name."

"Remus Lupin," he replied. "My apologies in not giving it sooner."

John looked up from the teacup and realized that the man was far younger than he had assumed. From how easily he'd managed to get John to focus on his boys and not the burning house, John had assumed the man was older than himself by a good margin. The almost too-polite tone to Remus' voice had also led him to believe this. But Remus was far from old. At least, physically. John pegged the man to be somewhere between twenty and twenty-five, but even as young as he appeared, Remus had old eyes. The man's light brown – nearly golden – eyes spoke of having seen far too much of the bad side of life. Despite the fact that John knew the man couldn't possibly have been old enough, it was almost like sitting with a fellow Vietnam vet.

Some of the tension melted from between his shoulders. "John Winchester," he replied, offering his hand and waiting for the inevitable 'like the rifle?' comment. It didn't come.

Instead, Remus reached across the table and shook the offered hand. "Pleasure."

Before the room could descend into an uncomfortable silence, Missouri appeared. "The boys are bedded down with Harry, Remus," she said.

Remus nodded, "Good. Thank you, Missouri." He turned his attention back to John. "John, this is my good friend, Missouri Mosley. Missouri, this is John Winchester."

Missouri shook John's hand, unable to hide her slight wince at the mental pain the man was in. John noticed and asked, "What?"

There were a dozen, maybe even a hundred, questions packed into that one little word. Missouri was at a loss as to where to start. Remus could hear the multiple tones in the question and stepped in, "Missouri's a psychic. She can… I suppose 'see' is the only word that fits, even if she's told me on numerous occasions that it's not precisely accurate, some of what you're thinking."

Once more, John couldn't say why, but he believed Remus. Really, though… After seeing his wife pinned to the _ceiling_, how could he disbelieve in something as mundane as a little thought-reading?

"You're not crazy," Missouri said, taking the chair next to John's. She had yet to let go of his hand. "You know what you saw, and what you saw was as real as can be. Now, I don't know what caused it, mind, but it was _real_."

"How…?"

Taking it in turns, both Remus and Missouri stayed up late that night, answering John's many questions to the best of their ability.

* * *

Over the course of the following weeks, John and his boys continued staying with Remus, Missouri, and Harry, despite offers from John's friends to put them up until they got back on their feet. Even visiting at his friends' homes, John didn't really feel safe. Not like he did at Missouri's.

John didn't hold out hope that the investigation regarding the fire would pull up any leads; he knew, from speaking with Remus and Missouri, that what had started it wasn't an 'electrical short'. Every day that passed saw a growing conviction in John's mind – he needed to hunt down whatever it was that had sundered his family so effectively. He needed to kill it. But he could also see the sense in Remus' advice to wait until things settled down.

So John waited. He had long talks with Remus and Missouri about what was really waiting in the dark. He read many of their books. He slowly reconciled the fact that not only were the monsters of fairytales real, but that magic was, too – and not just the tricks that Remus could do with that wand of his, but older magics.

Between learning about everything he'd always dismissed as legend and answering never-ending questions from the police and fire marshal and trying to go to work at the garage, was it any wonder that Christmas managed to sneak up on him without warning? But he managed. He got his boys gifts. Harry, too. Remus and Missouri also got a token from him, but no one else that year. He supposed that Mike might not count on that front, though. John had sold his half of their garage to the man, unable to listen to one more 'you've got to get over it, pull yourself together' lecture.

Yeah, Remus and Missouri both knew a hell of a lot about the things that stalked the night, but neither could tell John with any certainty what had killed his Mary. So, on January first, John bade them a fond farewell and promised to keep in touch.

He was about ready to back out of Missouri's driveway when the passenger door of his car opened and Remus slid in, holding Harry on his lap. Sammy was buckled in his car seat in the back, Dean amusing the baby with a brightly-colored plush thing that rattled when shook.

In response to John's glare, Remus chuckled. "Think I'd let you go off on your own, old man? You'd get yourself killed inside a month."

"Hey," John objected, "a little less with the 'old' if you don't mind." John put the car in reverse. He didn't bother trying to argue with Remus – he had yet to win one with the younger man.

"So… Any idea where you're going?" Remus twisted and deposited Harry next to Dean in the back seat. "Be good, you two," he warned them even as they started whispering and giggling together.

"No clue."

Remus grinned, "Well then. The way I see it, we've got a couple of options. We could head down to Arizona, see if we can't find a friend of mine who might know a little more about what happened here, or we could head to another friend up in South Dakota and see if he's got any info for us."

John maneuvered his car through the light traffic, thinking. He pulled to a stop at a red light and asked, "Who'd be more likely to know?"

Remus shrugged, "Either. Bobby's got a home-base, though, so he would be easier to locate. Raven doesn't stay in one place longer than a week."

"Why's that?"

Remus shook his head, "I'm not altogether sure, but most people who know her think she's being hunted by the one thing you can't kill or banish."

John shot a sharp look at Remus. "Memories," the younger man clarified.

"Oh," John replied. "So… This Bobby lives in South Dakota?"

"Yes, about two hours west of Pierre."

By the time Dean and Harry fell asleep leaning on each other, the car was on I-29, heading north.

* * *

**A/N2:** And that's the prologue. I hope it intrigues you all enough to continue onwards.

I suppose I ought to take a moment to say that the dates I give for the full moons in this tale are in no way accurate. This is a conscious choice on my part, as I looked up several of the more important dates with which I'll be dealing (at a website called stardate-dot-org) and found that none of the moon phases listed were compatible with my vision for this story. Just thought I ought to point that out before someone else decided to call me on it.

The updates for this – as with any of my WIPs – will continue being erratic. I write on whichever story's musebunnies are screaming loudest. I don't know, from day to day, which story will beg my attention.

And yeah, I'm a longtime fan of _Calvin and Hobbes_ – yes, the cereal Dean had for breakfast was a total homage to C&H.

Remember to let me know what you think of this by dropping me a review – or, ya know, if you've got questions or whatever.


	2. I Will Lay Me Down

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by Eric Kripke; various production elements including, but not limited to, Warner Brothers and the CW network. The title for this fic is a line from _Get Out Alive_ (© Zomba Recording, LLC & Sony BMG Music Entertainment & Three Days Grace. Track 7 of the 'One-X' album) and the title for this chapter is a line from _Bridge Over Troubled Water_ (© Columbia Records and Simon&Garfunkel. Off of the album of the same name). No money is being made from this intellectual exercise and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** So that I can get to the nifty parts of this world, I'm speeding through the wee!years. The next chapter will start out with all characters having a reasonably adult mindset (I don't like children, nor do I like having to think like one). Warning – there's some light wee!angst midchapter.

* * *

**Run for Your Life**

_I Will Lay Me Down_

_May 4, 1987_

It was hard for John to believe they'd been in South Dakota for three – almost three-and-a-half – years. It hadn't taken long at all for him to become friends with Bobby; not when there was so much in their lives which was common ground. Sure, Bobby may have not been a marine, but he'd served a stint in Vietnam – a full eighteen months and some odd days – so that had been the fourth point of connection.

The third had been that they'd both lost their wives to _something_ supernatural – and for all that Remus objected to the term, saying that it wasn't 'super anything, let alone super_natural_, just not muggle', both John and Bobby persisted in using the term. It was partially because to them, what had happened in their respective lives _had_ been supernatural – something which ought not to have existed, let alone _happened_, but the majority of it was just light teasing at Remus' expense.

The second point had been cars. In fact, Bobby's first words that first night after they'd gotten the boys bedded down in the man's spare bedroom had been, "Nice Impala. She's a '67, right?" Of course, it hadn't passed John's notice that the sign above the man's drive had indicated he owned a junkyard.

The first and easiest point on which they connected had been the boys. For all that Bobby tried – and normally succeeded – to project the aura of a gruff man for whom the rest of the world could just 'go bugger itself', to borrow Remus' phrasing, he was the world's biggest softie when it came to the boys.

This isn't to say there hadn't been arguments – God knows, there'd been arguments, and one or two fistfights – but, for the most part, it had been relatively smooth. The feeling of 'safe' which John had first noticed at Missouri's home was present at Bobby's, but more than that – it was _comfortable_; comfortable in a way that Missouri's home couldn't be. The furniture was old, shabby, and worn out. The floors were dusty and scuffed. More often than not, the kitchen table was buried under car parts or books and papers rather than dishes and food. There was always beer in the fridge and aluminum foil on the rabbit-ears on the television in the living room. Where in Missouri's home there had been bundles of herbs tied with ribbon to hooks over every window and door, in Bobby's house there wasn't a single speck of anything that could be passed off as potpourri. Instead of the herbal sachets, on the ceiling of each room was a no-nonsense symbol of protection and only a couple of the windows could actually be opened – not because they'd been painted shut, but because years of layers of salt on the sills had solidified in the summer humidity.

It wasn't often that John found himself home alone, but today was one of those days. Bobby had gone after a spook in a town over by the Wyoming border that was turning its victims inside-out and wasn't due back for a good three or four more days yet. Remus had taken the boys down to Lake Oahe for the day, his battered blue pick-up truck loaded with kites and inner tubes, fishing poles and tackle-boxes, and a large cooler of sandwiches, fruit, chips, and sodas.

John stayed behind to 'mind the fort', as it were. What with Bobby out of town, _someone_ had to, and Remus knew precisely _jack_ about cars. Besides, it was about as far from a full moon as it could possibly get, so he knew his boys were safe. It wasn't that John didn't trust Remus – just the opposite, in fact – it was just that John was a firm believer in the Laws of Murphy; one of these days, unforeseen events would come about which would lead to a wild werewolf on the loose. Sure, they took all the precautions which Remus said would lower those chances to near-nil, but still… Like the fact that Remus took some sort of medication during the week prior to the full moon. _What's it called again? Oh, yeah. Wolfsbane._ John thought it smelled like ass, but he was sure it tasted worse, if the look on Remus' face when he took it was anything to go by. He still wasn't entirely sure who made it for him, only that it took a highly convoluted route to get to his friend each month. There was also a 'safe room' in Bobby's basement, a combination of concrete and silver-plated bars, which was a failsafe if his medication didn't arrive. Bobby himself was another failsafe. Rather, the man's .38 and a clip of silver bullets were the failsafe, though more often than not, it was Bobby who waited until morning to let Remus in.

John glanced at his watch, surprised that it was already four in the afternoon. He sat his book aside – he'd been studying, _Damned if I'm gonna be the _only_ one here who doesn't know that Latin crap_ – and headed for the kitchen, intent on a beer and a salami sandwich.

For all of his mostly unvoiced certainty that the werewolf was, someday, going to cause a problem, even if he didn't mean to, John had to admit that life was somewhat easier having Remus around. Remus had done something to the windows that made the aging window AC unit in the kitchen actually manage to do its job in keeping the ground floor of the house somewhat livable. Remus had mentioned that if they didn't need the radio and television signals to get through, he could have done more to make the entire house a constant comfortable temperature, but no one save Remus seemed all too interested in losing reception. John didn't know why, but Remus' magic and electronics just didn't mesh well. Though that fact _had_ helped John learn how to read an EMF reader a helluva lot quicker than he probably would have otherwise.

_Hell, be honest, John. You owe that wolf a shitload. And not just 'cause he makes life easy. Who knows where you'd be if he hadn't showed up that night?_

Remus had also, almost single-handedly, remodeled Bobby's house that first summer after they had all moved in._ I don't know about the wolf, but I know I'd only planned on getting some information, but almost before I knew it, one day had just blended into the next and well… I'm still here, ain't I?_ Bobby had approved of the renovations and John had helped hammer in the nails, but Remus had done the majority of the work, especially since John was undergoing what Bobby had called 'Hunter Boot-Camp' at the time.

One evening that summer, when the addition was still mostly a frame of two-by-fours, John had asked why the wizard didn't simply magic the addition into existence. Remus had then spent nearly an hour explaining how, even with the most advanced conjurations, the magic would eventually unravel and be reabsorbed into nature; so, though he could use magic to move the pieces and keep them in place for a short time, he still had to actually use things like nails and plaster to make sure the place didn't just collapse one day. By the end of the summer, there was an addition along the back of the house which consisted of an extra bathroom and two more bedrooms upstairs and an actual _library_ downstairs. _Not that the library actually held all those two's books. But it did hold enough that we could walk through the living room and not trip. For a few months, at least. Even with that whachamacallit he showed me – that shrinking spell – I _still_ don't know how he managed to carry all those books in his shitty little backpack._

Of the three adults, Remus was also the only one who could cook something that consisted of more than 'pierce film with fork and microwave on high for 5-7 minutes' – that didn't involve the barbecue grill, at any rate. Granted, the British-born man's idea of food was somewhat… odd, but Bobby and John had pooled together for Remus' twenty-sixth birthday the year before and gotten him a collection of American cookbooks. Now, they often had stuffed pork chops with a side of mashed turnips (which weren't quite as bad as John had assumed the first time Remus had made them), instead of whichever internal organ happened to be on sale at the Save-a-Lot.

Insofar as the boys were concerned, the three of them split duties. John made sure all three were learning the fine art of sports – things like baseball, football, and hockey, as well as archery, wrestling, and boxing – and how to camp, track, and hunt (even if they were still a bit young, in his opinion, to be handling firearms. He'd wait until they turned ten for _that_), and, of course, he also had his parental responsibility over Dean and Sam. Bobby taught the boys an odd mixture of science, history, folklore, and Latin, often simultaneously, while they were 'helping' him and John in the shop (once Bobby'd found out that John was a certified mechanic, he'd reopened that aspect of his business). Remus taught the boys about the magical world – his reasoning was that since Harry was going to have to learn it anyway, he may as well teach all three because, with as inseparable as they were, all three would eventually learn all about it anyway – as well as things the other two hadn't even considered, like manners, music, and, of all things, _penmanship_. Currently, the wolf was teaching them chess. He was also responsible for all guardian-whachahoozits for Harry, though he didn't often have to reprimand the kid. _Either Harry's just not as into shit as Dean, or he's better at not getting caught._

Between the three adults, the kids were getting a helluva education. According to the tests they had to take every month at the local high school, Dean and Harry were reading at an eighth-grade level, with their math skills equivalent to a sixth-grader, and the rest of their subjects falling somewhere between the two. Since Sammy was only four, he wouldn't have to start doing the tests until the next year, but it wouldn't surprise John in the slightest if the kid ended up testing higher than the other two. _Hafta wonder just where that comes from. Lord knows, I ain't dumb, but Sammy's got me beat, hands-down. _Especially_ at that Latin crap._

Back when school first crossed John's thoughts, right around Dean's fifth birthday, it had been Bobby who suggested home-schooling for the boys.

"_Why?" John asked, still under the impression that Bobby wasn't too happy with having his home invaded._

"_Because they'd learn more, and it'd be useful, too. Not that pointless crap they shovel on kids now."_

It had taken most of the following summer to pry the whole truth out of Bobby. Boiled down, it amounted to the fact that he knew that Harry wouldn't be safe going to a public school. When John finally got the whole story as to why _that_ was out of Remus, the addition was done and Christmas was looming on the horizon.

"_I'd think that it's more dangerous staying in one place for you two," John mentioned one snow-crusted morning, helping Remus chop and move firewood._

_Remus laughed a little, "That depends on your definition of dangerous, John. Sure, we are more likely to be tracked down staying in one place, but moving around all the time makes it hard for me to get my Wolfsbane. There were a couple of close calls after we got to the US but before I ran into you. Besides, I can't see how moving all the time would be all that good for the boys. Stability and all that."_

"_Don't you worry?" John sat another log on the stump, but leaned on the axe instead of using it to cleave the log into firewood._

"_Sure I worry. But there's a difference between worrying about what could be and what might be and letting that fear run your life. I refuse to live in fear." Remus glanced over to where Dean and Harry were playing in the snow. "Besides, I don't think the boys would be too happy if Harry left now."_

"_Uncle Remus! Come play!" Dean shouted across the yard._

"_Go on," John nodded to the small pile of logs that remained. "I've got this." As Remus hurried over to help the boys build a snow-fort, John thought that, at least as far as Dean was concerned, if Remus and Harry did leave, it wasn't just Harry who'd be missed._

John pulled himself from his memories and finished his sandwich just as the phone rang. "Singer Salvage, John here," he answered. "Uh-huh. '82? Sounds like the alternator. Bring it by tomorrow and I'll take a look."

* * *

_November 25, 1988_

"Give it back!" Sammy shouted, chasing after Dean, who spun around and tossed it to Harry on the other side of the living room.

"You have to catch us first, Sammy!" Harry yelled back, racing out of the living room and through the front door. Dean went the other direction, through the kitchen and out the back door, nearly ricocheting off of his Dad and Bobby. Sam, intent on getting his toy back, tore after Dean, sure that he was being tricked.

"Do I want to know?" Raven asked, leaning on the cupboard where Remus was working on Thanksgiving dinner.

"Probably not," John, Bobby, and Remus replied simultaneously.

"So this is common, then?"

"Yes," another in-stereo reply.

"Oh-kaay," Raven shook her head, a little amused.

"What?" John said. "It's not like a little roughhousing ever hurt anybody."

Ignoring the byplay of looks between Bobby, John, and Raven, Remus prompted, "You were saying about Fort Douglas?"

Raven nodded, "Yeah, was helping Preacher with some research in Milwaukee when the articles caught my attention. Don't think it's urgent, but it does seem to be escalating. I called Jefferson, but he's stuck in Cali right now. You were the next-closest, what with Preacher buried in his books."

"What about Jim?" Bobby asked. "Or Bill?"

"Jim's in Albuquerque, visiting his sister and her family, and I'm _not_ starting another argument between Ellen and Bill."

"Fair enough," Bobby commented. "So, you stayin' for supper?"

"Who am I to turn down free food?" Raven grinned.

By the time dinner was served, Sam had managed to get his toy back from Harry and Dean and the adults agreed that Remus and John would go check out what was going on in Wisconsin.

A week later, after speaking with the parents under the guise of CDC workers – the IDs complements of Remus' transfiguration skills – they checked the homes of the families who had children in comas in the hospital. Neither John nor Remus noticed anything unusual until the fifth house on their list of eight. John spotted a handprint in the windowsill. He took a picture with the cheap plastic camera he usually used to snap photos of the boys.

"Find something?" Remus asked.

John nodded and inspected the print a little closer. "A handprint."

Remus stepped across the room and stood next to John. "Hmm…"

"Whacha thinkin'?"

"Well, it looks a lot like a banshee," he reached down to tap the claw-like marks at the ends of the fingers. The wood disintegrated between the lines of the fingers, obscuring the print somewhat. "But a banshee doesn't have claws quite like that, nor would it have rotted the wood."

"Not to mention, none of the kids are actually _dead_."

"That, too." Remus furrowed his brow in thought. "Why don't you go get that film developed? I need to grab something from the house. Meet you back at the motel later."

Before John could reply, Remus spun in place and popped out of sight. _I hate it when he does that_.

Two hours later, they sat at the rickety table in their double-room with a black-and-white photograph sitting next to one of Remus old school books, open to a page titled 'Shtriga'.

John reread the entry for the fifth or sixth time.

_Albanian in origin, the shtriga is a subclassification of the vampire, though in this instance, the creature needs not blood, but life essence in order to survive. Shtriga prefer feeding on children, often targeting the oldest child in a family first, then working its way though to the youngest. There have only been three recorded instances of a shtriga attacking an adult, and none wherein the victim was younger than one year old. It is unknown just why this is the case, though most theories point to the fact that one's life essence grows stronger all through childhood, hitting its peak between the ages of eight and fourteen._

_Shtriga also have a minor shapeshifting ability. They can disguise themselves to appear to be nothing more than a normal human. Most often, they will appear to be a feeble, old woman. It is believed that a shtriga is what spawned the tale of Hansel and Gretel. However, a shtriga is invulnerable to physical attack while in its human form._

_Another ability of the shtriga is that its touch accelerates natural entropy. In short, it can rot nonliving matter, just by touching it. If what it touches is alive, this ability doesn't work._

_Insofar as magical vulnerability, not much is known. In the annals of Roslyn D'Archer, D'Archer claims to have killed a shtriga by waiting until it was feeding and running it through with an iron blade, but this is in direct opposition to the journals of Andrew Wainwright, who claims he saved D'Archer from the shtriga by means of a simple blasting curse. Who was right remains to be seen, as no sign of a shtriga has surfaced for the last century._

"Well?" John asked, looking up from the book.

"Well what?"

"What else do you know about this?" John tapped the entry.

Remus shook his head, "Just what it says, John. Though I do know that the D'Archer/Wainwright feud is one of the most entertaining bits of wizarding world history I've ever had the pleasure to read."

"How's that?"

"They had been set up by their parents in an arranged marriage – this was almost a hundred-fifty years ago, mind – but they hated each other on sight. So, most of the tales they tell about the creatures they encountered in their lives have two versions – one where D'Archer plays the damsel in distress, and one where Wainwright is cast in that role. Personally, I think they probably spent more time vilifying each other than actually researching magical creatures, but they're entertaining, nonetheless." Remus stood and stretched, "When we get back, I'll loan you their books – you'll want to read them at the same time; chapter one in the first, then chapter one in the second and so on."

John leaned back in his chair and sighed a little, "Still doesn't tell us how to track this sucker down, though."

"Sure it does," Remus grinned. "It says they work their way through families."

"But the last kid was an only child."

"But the one right before _isn't_. The shtriga hasn't had the chance to go after the youngest one in that family because they haven't gone home since the older fell ill. All we need to do is go back and reassure them that the doctors at the hospital are doing all they can and that our 'tests' at their home came back negative. Encourage them to get some rest."

John looked at Remus as though the man had lost his mind. "You want to use the kid as bait? She's only what, four? Five?"

"She's also our best chance at tracking it down," Remus reminded him, gesturing to the map thumbtacked to the wall with pins marking the locations of all twelve attacks. There hadn't been a pattern they could see.

"I still don't like it."

"I don't, either. If you've got a better idea, I'm more than willing to listen."

Though neither man really liked the idea of using little Caroline as bait, neither could come up with anything better. It worked though, and despite her parents' confusion over what, exactly, happened, they were grateful to John and Remus for keeping the thing – which the dad had caught a brief glimpse of before Remus had shoved him out of the way – from harming their daughter; said gratitude was enough for the parents to overlook the bullet-hole in the wall.

John and Remus stuck around town just long enough to catch the morning news the next day. They found out that the kids who had been in the hospital were all recovering and would be released over the next few days. As an addendum to the main story, it was mentioned that the doctor in charge of the case appeared to have gone missing.

"You think…?" John looked to Remus.

The werewolf shrugged, "I don't know, John. But you have to admit, it makes sense in a weird sort of way."

* * *

_March 14, 1989_

Sammy sighed and scuffed his sneaker in the gravel of the path that ran from the back door to the shop. It was raining, washing away the last of the winter snow, and Sam was getting wet. He didn't care. Maybe if he got sick, someone would pay some attention to him, instead of Dean and Harry. _It's not fair!_ It was bad enough that he always got hand-me-downs – and yes, he was purposefully ignoring the fact that Harry got hand-me-downs, too, and the fact that most of their clothes came from Goodwill to begin with – and the fact that Harry was all the time making weird stuff happen, and how Dean always got to do the fun stuff first, but now _this_.

It had started when Harry and Dean were playing catch in the bedroom all three boys shared. But they knew they couldn't do that with a real ball – they'd gotten in trouble enough to know better – so Harry had made a ball with his magic. They'd played catch with it before, always saying how Sammy was too little to join. This morning, however… This morning Uncle Remus had caught the older boys playing with the baseball-sized multi-colored ball of softly glowing magic and totally freaked. After telling Dean to throw the ball to Sammy, where it just sorta _popped_ into a shower of sparkly glitter that melted away, Uncle Remus marched Harry and Dean downstairs to the kitchen. He had them show Dad and Uncle Bobby how they played catch. Then they started talking. A lot.

Sammy may only have been five – _almost six!_ – but he wasn't stupid. While Dad and Uncle Bobby and Uncle Remus were having Harry and Dean play catch and talking, talking, talking, he heard what they said.

Dean was special like Harry.

Sammy wasn't.

_It's not fair! Dean's the oldest and Harry's always been special, but what about me? I'm just the littlest. Too small to play with Dean and Harry most of the time and always the last to do new stuff and by the time I get the toys and clothes they're all worn out. It's not fair._

Sammy didn't know how long he'd been sitting in the rain when someone sat down next to him. "What's wrong, Sammy?"

Sammy thought about ignoring Dad, but knew it would just get him three laps around the property or ten push-ups or something like that. So he shrugged.

"Come on, kiddo. Don't give me that. Something's got a bug up your ass."

Sammy shrugged again.

"Sammy." Okay, so that was an order.

"I wanna be special, too." He whispered it, hoping that the rain would be enough to drown out his words. _Can't get in trouble for not answering if he didn't hear me. 'S not my fault if he can't hear._

Dad heard. Dad heaved out a big sigh and pulled Sammy in close. "What makes you think you aren't?"

Sammy shrugged again, but when Dad glared down at him, he sighed heavily. "I couldn't catch the ball Harry made. Dean can and just now Uncle Remus said he was." Sammy scrunched his forehead up at his own words. "That didn't come out right."

Dad chuckled a little, his side twitching against Sammy's, "It's okay, sport. I knew what you meant. But you thought what Remus said meant that you _aren't_ special. Right?"

Sammy wasn't crying. He _wasn't_. He just had to wipe some of the rain off his face and was probably getting a cold – that's why he sniffled. He nodded to answer Dad.

Dad heaved out another sigh, bigger than the last. "Stand up, son. I wanna make sure you hear this."

Sammy didn't know what standing had to do with hearing, but he did like Dad told him and stood on the gravel path. He was eye-to-eye with Dad. "You _are_ special. You can read and do math and all that, just the same as Dean can, and he's _four years older than you_. I know you don't really understand, but it's a really big deal that you can do all that at only five." Dad's face split into a rare grin, "Besides, you're better at all that Latin crap than I am."

"Mitte ioca," Sammy muttered. _That's not special. It's just normal stuff._

"See? That right there is what I'm talking about. You could've just told me to go to hell and I woulda had no clue." Dad's eyes narrowed a little, "You didn't, did you?"

Sammy felt a small smile on his face, "No. It means 'stop joking'."

"But I wasn't joking, Sammy. It doesn't matter that Dean can do some of the things that Harry and Remus can. Everyone has their strengths; you gotta remember that you do, too."

Sammy didn't know about that, but for the time-being, he was willing to take Dad's word for it.

* * *

_January 24, 1990_

Remus, Bobby, and Harry were in town, getting some groceries and 'a few other things', which Dean was pretty sure meant that either Remus or Bobby had forgotten his birthday was today and needed to pick up a present. They took Harry with them to get his opinion on what gift to buy. While they were gone, the mail arrived, and much to Dean's surprise, there was an envelope with his name on it.

Dean held the letter from the Midwestern Magical Training Academy and reread it for the third time.

_Dear Dean Winchester,_

_The Midwestern Magical Training Academy would like to extend an invitation to join us for your next school year. We understand that this is a difficult choice, particularly since ours is a boarding school, and hereby would like to invite you and your family to our open house this spring, to be held May first through the fifth; accommodations, travel, and meals are provided._

_As you are currently registered as receiving home-schooling, should you desire to continue in that track, a list of fully accredited tutors is available from our office._

_We require your R.S.V.P. on the invitation to the open house no later than six o'clock in the evening on April twelfth of this year._

_Sincerely,  
Jonah Hopkins  
Dean of Admissions  
MMTA_

The return address was for Kansas City.

"Whaddaya think, Dean?" John asked, "You wanna go see this school?"

Dean looked up at his dad and started to nod, but stopped himself. He could see Sammy lurking on the stairs, looking like someone had just run over one of Bobby's dogs. A flood of memories flitted though his mind.

_He was four and Mom and Dad had just brought his little brother home. He didn't quite know where from, only that storks and cabbage and a hospital were involved, but he decided it didn't matter. His mom had him climb on the couch and sat down next to him. She introduced him to his brother, "This is Sammy, Dean. I know he's a little smaller than you were hoping, but he'll grow up faster than you know it. You wanna hold him?"_

_Dean nodded and Mom put the squirmy bundle of blankets in his lap. "Hi, Sammy. I'm Dean."_

"_You gonna help me with Sammy until he gets big enough to do things on his own?" Mom asked._

_Dean, not looking up from Sammy, nodded vigorously. "Def'nit'ly."_

_Mom laughed, "I'm going to hold you to that, you know."_

_Dean didn't care. When he made a promise, it was always the forever-kind._

_Then there was heat and smoke and Dad shouting at him to take Sammy outside as fast as he could._

_And then there was cookies and milk and a black lady trying to get him to talk to her, but even though he didn't say anything she knew that he wasn't eating the cookies because Sammy didn't have any, so she ran to the store and brought back a box of special cookies just for Sammy._

_Grammissouri, what Harry called her, was busy with her customers and Remus – or was it Moony? Harry never said for-sure one way or the other – was running errands and Dad needed to stop by work. He was only gonna be gone a few minutes, but Dean knew his dad was worried. It wasn't that he'd forgotten how to talk, it's just that there wasn't anything to say. But Dad sat Sammy in his lap, just like Mom had, and told him that he needed Dean to promise to look after Sammy and go get Missouri if anything was wrong._

"_I promise, Daddy," Dean had replied._

_And then there were the little things; showing Sammy how to tie his shoes, helping him learn to read and count, both of them playing with Harry…_

Though his brother could be a royal pain-in-the-neck, he hadn't forgotten those promises; one to his mother, the other to his dad. When Dean made a promise, it was the forever-kind. So, Dean shrugged a little. "What can they teach me that Uncle Remus can't?"

He pretended not to notice Sammy's grin.

* * *

_August 6, 1991_

In almost a rerun of the events on Dean's birthday, Harry received invitations to both the MMTA and Hogwarts. Like Dean, Harry opted not to go to either school; particularly since he and Dean were already partway through Remus' old third-year textbooks. He'd already told Remus his decision the preceding week, and so when the letters showed up – one by owl, the other through the regular mail – Harry had already drafted his replies. Remus was not at all surprised when Minerva McGonagall showed up almost a week to the day after Harry's birthday. He'd even warned John and Bobby that it was probable that someone would come to confirm Harry's choice in not attending his parents' old school.

After the furor her sudden appearance in Bobby's front yard caused died down, Minerva took the time to dispatch with her official duties before relaxing somewhat into the close friend Remus left behind. Remus' comfortable attitude with her further relaxed both John and Bobby – though, in the latter, it may have had more to do with the fact that he'd made the iced tea with holy water than any behavioral cues from the werewolf. John and Bobby left Remus to his guest when Minerva asked that they speak privately.

"I must say, Minerva, you're taking this a bit better than I'd imagined," Remus added some sugar to his glass and stirred it. "Not to mention, I was rather surprised that Albus didn't come with you."

Minerva laughed outright, "I'm sure, had certain events not happened, he _would_ have come."

"What events?"

Minerva handed Remus a newspaper clipping from her pocket. It was muggle in origin, obvious from the way the small black-and-white photo accompanying the short article _didn't _move. The article itself described how a couple from Surrey were being charged with child neglect. Remus looked up, confused.

"The family is Harry's aunt, uncle, and cousin – the family which he was to have been left with, had I not placed him with you instead," Minerva replied.

Remus' confusion doubled, "But…"

"Unless you're very well-trained or exceedingly lucky, the obliviate spell can wear off on its own – you know this. In my case, it was about two years after you left. I didn't tell Albus until Arabella Figg flooed this article to him last month." She chuckled again, "Far from being fired, as I had feared would be the case for what I'd done, he actually talked the Board into giving me a pay raise for knowing when to supersede his decisions."

At Remus' prompting, she went on to explain how the Dursleys had allowed their son far too much free rein – the boy was a regular hooligan, bullying other children, stealing, vandalizing property, and so on – without so much as a lecture, let alone something even remotely resembling a grounding. It had finally gone too far when a policeman caught the boy spray-painting profanities on a brick wall during school hours the previous May.

About the same time she was wrapping up the latest gossip on Harry's only living blood relations, the boys tumbled into the kitchen. They were sweaty, dirty, and laughing like a pack of jackals as they attacked the refrigerator, practically gutting it in their enthusiasm for lunch. Minerva watched, her amusement showing plainly, as the three boys – aged twelve, eleven, and eight – moved seamlessly around one another as they assembled sandwiches, got cans of soda, and raided the fruit for apples and bananas. They didn't even notice her until Remus cleared his throat, "Hey, guys!"

Sam and Harry stopped in their lunch preparations, but Dean, who was slicing the apples, didn't bother looking up, "You want something, Uncle Remus?"

"A-hem," Remus fake-coughed.

Dean still didn't turn around. "Whacha need?"

Harry leaned forward a little and caught Sam's eye around Dean's back. Sammy grinned and, as Remus and Minerva watched, Harry held up a hand and silently counted down on his fingers. When he reached 'one', both Sammy and Harry elbowed Dean.

Dean dropped the knife with an outraged shout of, "Ow! You twerps!" He spun around, ready to grab Harry into a well-deserved noogie – _Because it's _always_ his idea_ – but was brought up short by the sight of the unfamiliar woman sitting at the table with Remus.

"Vos duos es sic mortuus," Dean muttered. (1)

Ignoring Dean's poorly-conjugated threat, Sammy smiled and stepped across the kitchen, "Sorry 'bout Dean, ma'am. Elleboro indiget." (2)

"Hey! I do not have a screw loose!"

After the laughter at Dean's expense died down and introductions were made, Remus told the Winchester boys to go work on their schoolwork while he and Minerva spoke with Harry.

In stead of doing like they were told, Dean and Sammy headed out to the living room, but lingered in the general vicinity of the door.

Over the course of the next hour or so, the brothers learned a few interesting facts about their 'uncle' which they'd not learned before; but, perhaps most importantly, they learned that their best friend was in some form of danger – a group of evil wizards was trying to track Harry down because of how he'd survived an attack from their leader. They knew most of that story, but the fact that they were _still_ pissed off about something that had happened a full ten years earlier was new. Sam and Dean also learned that Harry was to originally be placed with his mom's sister's family because living with his blood family would have made some weird bit of magical protection for him. They also learned that though the bad guys didn't yet know where to look for Harry, it would only be a matter of time before they found him. Before the conversation in the kitchen had finished, however, Sammy got an odd look on his face and wandered off, a low 'hmm…' noise trailing after him.

About a month later, after Minerva had gone home and Remus was about at his wits' end in researching what he should do about increasing protections around Harry – just in case, mind – _without _stopping the television and radios from working as they should, Dean, Harry, and Sam showed up in the library. Dean was carrying a folder that Remus recognized as being the one the boy normally kept his math homework in.

"What can I do for you three?" Remus asked, somewhat grateful for the interruption.

Dean glanced at Sammy and Harry shoved the older boy forward a step. Dean cleared his throat a little, "Um… We know you've been looking for a way to make Harry here safer," he stopped and looked down at the folder before glancing at his brother again.

Sammy rolled his eyes, snatched the folder and all but ran up to Remus. "Here," he said, shoving the folder into Remus' hands. "We think – that is, _I_ think," he amended on seeing the 'we may have helped, but this is all on you' looks on Harry's and Dean's faces. "_I_ think we found out how." It wasn't a good idea to leave out the other boys' work in their project – not if it actually _worked_. Sure, it wasn't really that fair that Sam would get all the blame if it didn't work, but had to share credit if it _did_, but that's just the way things were. In all honesty, Sam didn't really mind so much this time around. He knew his idea would work.

Remus smiled tiredly and opened the folder. It wouldn't hurt to see what the boys had come up with – even if he'd already ruled out whatever it happened to be. Twenty minutes later, he was engrossed. The notes were in a mix of Dean's haphazard scrawl, Harry's spiky cursive, and Sam's neatly precise printing, but that wasn't what was so interesting. The first few pages were Sammy-print excerpts of a handful of legends and stories, followed by a page or two of Harry's writing detailing the lighter uses of blood magic – including a description from one of Remus' advanced books on the nature of blood wards – followed by pages of diagrams and arithmancy in Dean's hand, showing how what they wanted to do would actually work.

After a further half an hour, Harry cleared his throat, "Um, Moony?"

"Yeah, cub?" Remus didn't look up from the notes.

"Whacha think?"

Remus made a 'hmm' noise.

"That a good 'hmm' or a bad 'hmm'?" Dean asked.

"Definitely a good 'hmm'," Harry answered, "can't you tell by how he's ignoring us?"

"Or by how he's kinda got that focused look he gets when Uncle Bobby finds a new book," Sam commented.

"I'm not ignoring you," Remus still didn't look up from the packet of papers. "Just… thinking."

"So, you _think_ it'll work?" Dean pressed.

Remus shook his head, "I'm not sure. I'll want to double-check your sources and go over the math you've got here, but so far, I'm not seeing why it wouldn't."

By the end of September, Remus had verified that Sammy's idea was a valid one, and made sure that Harry's and Dean's contributions to the work checked out. It took a little time to gather the ingredients needed, not to mention convince John to allow it to happen, but by the time Halloween rolled around that year, all three boys had small, identical tattoos on the back of their right shoulders. The design was a combination of the runes Elhaz and Gefu. Elhaz looked rather like a letter 'Y' with a third fork straight up from the stem, and its simplest meanings included that of protection and friendship. Gefu was an 'X' shape and meant gifts and partnership. Four Elhaz made the crosspieces of the Gefu, and when taken together meant 'brother'. The primarily black ink was a potion, most of the ingredients of which were traditionally used for protection. It had a slightly metallic shimmer, courtesy of the crushed zodiac birthstones used to represent the boys; sapphire dust for Sam, garnet dust for Dean, and white onyx for Harry. The potion-ink also included blood from all three boys to bind it together.

What this meant was that Dean, Harry, and Sam 'adopted' one another as brothers – it didn't change the fact that Remus was still responsible for Harry, nor the fact that John was Dean's and Sam's dad, only that according to magic or whatever controlled it would recognize Dean and Sam as Harry's kin, his blood. It didn't change how they looked – other than the tattoos, which were roughly an inch to a side – nor did it have any other effect. But the protections set in place so long ago by Lily Potter recognized the kinship the three boys now shared and by the morning after the completion of the blood-brother ritual, the wards had settled over Bobby's house.

* * *

_May 24, 1992_

"Dean!" Bobby took one look at his microwave and knew immediately who was responsible for the… _thing_ it had become. "Get your ass down here NOW!"

Dean knew he was about to get a thorough chewing-out and came running. "You bellered, Bobby?"

"Watch your mouth with me, boy. You ain't too old for a spankin'," Bobby glared at the thirteen year-old. "You care to explain just what you did to the microwave?"

Dean grinned, "Fixed it."

"It wasn't broke."

Dean shrugged, "Maybe not, but it works a hel- um, _heck_ of a lot better than it did."

Said microwave was in its customary place on the counter not far from either the toaster or the sink. It had lost its power-cord and grown an odd cylindrical drum on its top, though. The cylinder was about three inches high and had a small dial, what looked to be the needle-meter off of a voltmeter, and a row of lights along the edge facing the room.

"What. Did. You. Do. To. It." Bobby's patience was wearing thinner than normal. _All I wanted was to reheat my coffee, damnit._

"Like I _said_, I made it better," Dean walked over to stand in front of the appliance. "See this dial? It sets your power-level. Zero for defrost, all the way up to ten for high. This," he tapped the little needle-meter next to the dial, "will confirm that the dial's doing what it's s'posed to. And the lights let you know if it needs charging. They'll all glow green when it's fully-charged, and as it looses power, they'll slowly turn from green to yellow to red. When you're really close to loosing the power altogether, the lights'll drop from five to four to three and so on."

_Huh?_ "What was wrong with how it was before?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Took too long. Besides, this way, it won't add to the electric bill." He could tell that this was going to take forever unless Bobby had his coffee. He took the cup from Bobby, sat it in the microwave, cranked the power to ten, and turned it on for six seconds. When it dinged, he handed the now-steaming cup back to Bobby.

_I'll be damned, thing actually works._ Bobby sipped the caffeinated sludge and, just before Dean could disappear out the door, he remembered to ask, "Hey, what d'ya charge it with if it ain't got the cord?"

Dean's grin made a reappearance, "Just let it sit – it'll charge on its own, just offa the magic in the air."

There wasn't much Bobby could say in response to that.

Somehow, it didn't surprise him when similar little cylinders, each one looking a bit more refined than the last, began showing up on other appliances, starting with the coffee maker.

* * *

**A/N2:** I repeat, I don't much care for writing children, so this chapter hit the highlights of my combined SPN/HP world for those years. It was a necessary evil, in my opinion, to illustrate how different this world is from that of either cannon – particularly SPN (because how it's different from HP cannon is blatantly obvious).

I'm not really happy with the segment with the heading of August of 1991, but I didn't want it to run too long. There was so much else to get through in this chapter. If too many of you have questions about it, I may write out the whole reasoning I had behind it and put it in my bio page or at my LJ.

The next chapter is going to skip ahead a little bit – just enough to get us to grown-up thinking in our boys (and I know I'm skipping the teen years, but if anything important comes up, you'll see it, either as part of a conversation or in a flashback).

1. "Vos duos es sic mortuus." – Word-for-word translation of 'you two are so dead'; hence why it's referred to as 'poorly-conjugated'.

2. "Elleboro indiget." – Roughly translated, it means 'he's got a screw loose'.


	3. Claim the Road, Touch the Sun

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by Eric Kripke; various production elements including, but not limited to, Warner Brothers and the CW network. The title for this fic is a line from _Get Out Alive_ (© Zomba Recording, LLC & Sony BMG Music Entertainment & Three Days Grace. Track 7 of the 'One-X' album) and the title for this chapter is a line from _Never Give Up on a Dream_ (© Warner Brothers Records & Rod Stewart. Off of the album 'Tonight I'm Yours'). No money is being made from this intellectual exercise and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** If the previous chapter wasn't enough to convince you that this is totally, _completely_ AU, I hope that it becomes obvious in this chapter. And yeah, before anyone asks, I kinda have a 'thing' for motorcycles.

* * *

**Run for Your Life**

_Claim the Road, Touch the Sun_

_August 25, 1999_

"Remind me again just _why_ we're going to a school across the freakin' country?" Dean grumbled, maneuvering the moving van through the heavy traffic of Salt Lake City's evening rush hour.

Harry rolled his eyes, "Because it's where Sammy wanted to go. Besides, of the six schools Sammy wanted, it was the only one that gave _all three_ of us scholarships." He double-checked the map again and refolded it. "It's about a hundred-ten miles to Nevada," Harry glanced at the dash gauges. "We'll pro'ly wanna get gas soon."

Dean nodded and gestured to the CB, "Tell Sammy. I'll take the next exit. Dunno 'bout you, but I could do with a pit-stop, too."

Harry snagged the mic off of its velcro holder on the dash, "Hey, Sam? You still back there?"

"Yeah. 'Sup?"

"Need to fill this beast. Taking exit 304."

"Gotcha. We gonna stop for the day any time soon? Not that I'm complaining – it's just I ain't had to drive this much before."

Harry could sympathize. Though Dean seemed to be in his element, regardless of the fact that he was driving the truck instead of the car, no one else was all that happy about having spent the better part of the last thirteen hours on the road. "Don't know, Sammy. Talk to Dean when we stop."

"It's _Sam_."

"Whatever," Harry chuckled and sat the receiver back on its little velcro square.

Ten minutes later, the yellow Penske truck was pulled up to the diesel pump at a random stop'n'rob just off of I-80. Sam parked the car in a space near the doors to the building and got out to stretch his legs. While Dean went inside to pay, Harry wandered over. "Hey, Sam. You want anything?"

Sam nodded, "Some water wouldn't hurt. And _are_ we going to stop soon? I mean, we've got 'til Monday morning to get there. No need to rush like we've been doing."

Harry chuckled, "I think Dean's planning to stop off for the night in West Wendover."

"Where?"

"First town in Nevada."

Sam let out a sigh of relief. "That's what, two hours from here?"

Harry shrugged, "Somethin' like that. You might wanna get somethin' to eat, too. I don't think they'll have much choice once we get there, especially since it's already almost six."

"Just how tiny is this town?" Sam asked, watching Dean walk back across the cement to the truck and start filling it.

"Barely qualifies for a map-dot, in my opinion," Harry grinned.

Sam rolled his eyes, "In _your_ opinion, _Pierre_ barely qualifies for a map-dot."

Harry nodded again and changed the subject. "My duffel in the trunk, or did it get put in the truck?"

"Um, yeah. I think I remember seeing it go in the trunk this morning, but I don't know for sure. I was still trying to wake up. How come?"

Harry reached through the open window of the driver's door and snaked the keys from the ignition. "'Cause my contacts are buggin' the hell outta me. Gonna switch over to the specs before we get back on the road," he explained, opening the trunk and quickly locating his bag. "Speakin' of, you want me to drive, or you good 'til we get to Nevada?"

"I can handle another two hours. Thanks, though."

Harry retrieved his bathroom kit from the duffel and shut the trunk, tossing the keys to Sam before he headed into the building. Sam caught them and shoved them in his pocket. Figuring it wouldn't hurt to confirm their stop for the night with his brother, he headed over to where Dean stood, staring at the pump as the numbers on it climbed steadily higher.

"Sammy," Dean greeted his littlest brother. "You want somethin', or were you just longing for my presence?"

Sam smacked Dean's shoulder, "Shut up. Harry said you wanted to stop for the night once we reach Nevada, right?"

Dean nodded and pushed his sunglasses up on his head, "Yeah. Just outside West Wendover. Why, you gettin' tired?"

Sam shrugged, "Not really – just road-weary. I think Dad was right and we shoulda left last night. It woulda been cooler."

Dean winced a little. _I knew I forgot to fix the AC in the car before we left._ "Sorry. I'll fix the AC for ya tomorrow before we hit the road again."

Sam's forehead scrunched up a little as what Dean said sank in. It wasn't that Sam was slow – far from it, in fact, especially considering he was only sixteen and about to start college – but he was rather baked from his long day behind the wheel of a black car whose only working AC had been the rolled-down windows. "Hold up, 'just _outside_ West Wendover'? What's wrong with staying _in_ town?"

Dean's grin was huge and blindingly white, "You _do_ know what's just down the road from here, right?"

"The… Um… Hmm…" Sam racked his brain, trying to come up with what could possibly have Dean showing the level of enthusiasm he normally reserved for pretty girls. "Yeah, I got nothin'."

"Here's a hint, Sammy – think _salt_."

Understanding dawned. The palm of Sam's hand hit his forehead with a _thwack_. _The Bonneville Salt Flats._ "No."

"Oh, yeah," Dean's grin, if it was possible, grew brighter.

Sam sighed, "I thought the public wasn't allowed to drive on them any more?"

Dean replaced his sunglasses on his nose, "True, but Raven knows a guy who knows a guy who owes a favor or two. He owns a drag strip on the flats and said we're welcome to camp there tonight."

"I _hate_ camping," Sam didn't whine, but it was close.

"Think of it this way, Sammy, it's probably the safest place on the planet."

"Sure, you're safe from demons and ghosts and whatnot, but that doesn't mean that the local wildlife won't be a problem." Sam ignored the use of his nickname in favor of hopefully convincing Dean that a motel would be preferable to their sleeping bags.

The pump finally clicked off and Dean peered over the frames of his sunglasses while replacing the handle on its hook. "What wildlife? Buzzards?"

"Fine," Sam huffed out, "what about dehydration? Sunstroke?"

"That's why we've got the cooler, geek. And sunstroke? Dude, we're gonna be there _at night_. Quit your bitchin' or else I'll make you ride with me 'til we get to the bay area."

Sam grimaced, "Okay, okay. I give up." He _really_ didn't want to lose his radio-rights. It was far too rare that he actually got to listen to the music _he_ liked. Harry just liked music, be it country, classical, rock, or even gospel, so he never complained as long as the radio was _on_. Bobby preferred country. Remus had a thing for swing. Dad and Dean both were obsessed with classic rock. Sam was the odd one out in liking alternative. Though he could respect the skills of guitar players like Hendrix and Slash, he just didn't like the sound of guitar-heavy music. And country made him want to hit something what with all its whining.

Harry reappeared with some white plastic bags and his bathroom kit tucked under his arm. He had a pair of clip-on sunglasses over his normal rimless ones. "Here," he handed the smallest bag to Sam, along with the kit. "Could ya put the kit back in my duffle?"

"Sure. Whacha get?"

"Some stuff for tonight," he replied, wandering over to the passenger side of the truck. Sam followed and watched the other two bags go into the battered blue Igloo, along with a bag of ice. Sam was pretty sure he spotted the distinctive shape of a pack of hot dogs through the plastic.

"If we're gonna get there before it gets fully dark, we need to get goin'," Dean said, opening the door on the driver's side.

"Don't you need your change?" Harry asked.

Dean shrugged, "It's only forty-two cents. Not worth goin' back inside. The clerk's gotta be like a million years old."

Sam had no doubt that if the woman behind the counter had been closer to their age, Dean would have _definitely_ gone back for his forty-two cents, and let a slight smirk surface as he headed back to the car. He retrieved one of the two bottles of water from the sack Harry had handed him and had half of it drained before sliding in behind the wheel. He was pleased to see that Harry had also gotten him a couple of strips of jerky and some strawberry Twizzlers.

The sun was skimming the western horizon by the time Dean managed to locate their destination. Sam was just grateful not to be driving any more at that point. _Even a sleeping bag sounds like a good idea_, he thought, parking the Impala beside the moving truck.

Sam took the chance to take a good look around while Dean headed over to a small cinderblock building. Aside from the grey building with what looked like a tin roof, there wasn't a whole lot else worth looking at, just an endless flat of white – now tinged orange by the setting sun – with mountains on the horizons. There were also some bleachers rigged near the building, a couple of somewhat rusty-looking barrels that Sam assumed were for trash, and the 'road' leading from the drag strip into town.

While Dean was talking with an older guy who had a frazzled mane of hair that had once been some indeterminate shade of red but was now more gray than anything, Harry went around to the back of the truck and pulled out the loading ramp. Sam sighed to himself, _Of _course_ Dean's not gonna just run the car out here. He's gonna want to see just how far he can push his bike. And Harry's gonna be right there, egging him on._ Sometimes, it amazed Sam that he even _knew_ his brothers, let alone was related to them.

Harry took his time in opening the truck door and slowly walking first Dean's motorcycle and then his own down the ramp. Sam was a little surprised by the fact that his own bike followed suit. _Surely they can't be expecting me to join in on this?_ The sound of a motor starting pulled his attention back to the man with whom Dean had been speaking. Said man was sitting behind the wheel of a battered, mid-eighties station wagon with a homemade sign painted on the side that read 'B.J.'s Drag Strip – Live Races Every Saturday!' The man drove away, his car belching some dark blue smoke, as Dean strolled over, twirling a keyring on his finger.

"We've got free reign of the place 'til ten tomorrow morning. He said we can use the barbeque pit on the other side of the building for a campfire – there's even wood available."

Though it took some coaxing from both Dean and Harry to get Sam to participate in the fun, Sam eventually joined in. By the time they loaded their bikes back into the truck, it was almost three in the morning.

Dean's bike – a monster of a cruising bike, originally manufactured by Harley-Davidson and saved from rusting into oblivion by a sixteen year-old Dean – beat everything but the Impala in their speed-races. Harry's bike – an odd-looking cross between a dirtbike and one of the speeders from _Star Wars_ – tied with Sam's one-step-up-from-a-moped in maneuverability, though it was faster than Sam's in a straight race.

After a meal of hot dogs roasted on long forks and s'mores, chased with beer (the origin of which Sam refused to think too hard on, particularly since Dean was still a good five months shy of his twenty-first), they crawled into their own sleeping bags and slept out under the stars.

As was normal, Sam was the first one up the next morning. He stirred the coals in the barbeque pit and dug through the camp-box, conveniently located near the rear of the truck, for the percolator. The smell of coffee woke Harry and Dean. Once his brothers were looking somewhat more alert, Sam said, "By my figuring, we'll be in the bay area in about nine or ten hours."

Harry snickered, "Negatory on that, good buddy."

Sam blinked at Harry. "Huh? No, I used a ruler and everything. It's only about six hundred miles."

Dean tossed the dregs of the last cup of caffeine on the now-cold coals in the pit. "No, what Harry means is that we've got one more stop before we even _get_ to Cali," he grinned and waggled his eyebrows.

"Where?" Sam asked, resigned.

"Reno," came the in-stereo reply.

"You're joking."

"Nope," another simultaneous answer.

Sam groaned, "I hate to break it to you two, but _none _of us are twenty-one. Ain't no way in _hell_ we're gonna get to go inside a casino."

"That's where these little beauties come in handy," Harry replied, digging into his ever-present denim jacket and removing a small, plain white envelope. He opened the flap of the envelope and handed its contents to Sam. They were drivers' licenses, nearly identical in every way to the ones they currently carried that had been issued by the DMV, only each of these showed their ages to be over twenty-one.

Sam looked up at Harry, skepticism apparent in his expression. "Where'd ya get them?"

"Made 'em. Transfigured some of those fake credit cards that showed up in the mail this last year," Harry explained.

"And that's not the best part," Dean added his two cents. "The _best_ part is that if they try and run 'em through one of those card-reader things, the machine'll short out 'cause of the amount of magic they contain. So there's _no_ way we'll get caught."

Sam really hated being the youngest, especially when Dean and Harry ganged up on him. He knew there wasn't any way he was going to be able to talk them out of this idiocy. Instead of letting things devolve into yet another argument he wasn't going to win, Sam simply took the ID with his name and picture on it and stuck it in the pocket of his jeans before handing the other two back to Harry.

Dean laughed, "That's my boy!" He clapped Sam's shoulder on his way past. He hadn't forgotten that he'd said he'd fix the AC in the Impala.

Seven hours, three loose wires, a meal, and two more gas-stops for the truck later, and the mini-caravan pulled into Reno. After bypassing the chain hotels near the interstate, Dean eventually stopped at a motel that wasn't too far from the dizzying array of lights of the casinos downtown, yet was just far enough that they wouldn't be paying an arm and a leg for their stay. The fact that the place looked like some weird cross between a southwestern adobe mission and a medieval European castle was a bonus.

While waiting for Harry to return with their keys, Sam climbed out of the car and opened the trunk. Dean soon joined him. "Do you have like a weirdo-motel homing system or something?" Sam asked, tossing Dean's duffle to him.

Dean shrugged, "Must have."

Sam could count the number of 'normal' motels Dean had picked over the last few years on one hand. Ever since the boys started going with Remus, Bobby, and/or John, if Dean was part of the group, the motel they ended up at was always… _unique_.

After locating their room and showers for all three of them, Sam plugged into the motel's internet connection and began poking around sites regarding Reno – _I'll leave the illegal gambling to Harry and Dean_ – while Dean called their family to let them know where they were and Harry flipped through the cable with a speed that would make most observers dizzy.

The phone rang three times before Bobby picked up, "Singer Salvage, Bobby here."

"Heya, Bobby," Dean said with a smile.

"Dean. You three didn't call yesterday – Remus was worried."

"I'll bet," Dean replied. _I'm betting Remus wasn't the only one, either_, he thought with a smirk_._ "Sorry 'bout that. We camped out last night in the salt flats. We're in Reno right now."

"You ain't gonna do somethin' stupid, are you?"

Dean could practically _see_ the disapproving tilt of Bobby's head and the way his left eyebrow twitched like it wanted to arch up, but couldn't quite make it. "No, sir," he said in his best 'who, me?' voice.

"Don't you try that with me, Dean. I know you boys better'n that. Just promise me you'll at least _listen_ to Sam." Bobby, like Remus and John, knew that Harry and Dean had a tendency to get a little carried away with fun. Sam was sometimes able to bring a voice of reason to some of their more ludicrous ideas; the key word being 'sometimes'.

"Hey, I _always_ listen to Sammy."

"But you don't always follow his advice."

Dean shrugged even though he knew Bobby couldn't see it, "What can I say? I'm the older brother here. Shouldn't Sammy be the one listening to _me_?"

Bobby snorted, "Maybe if you weren't such a bad influence."

"Hey!" Dean objected, knowing this back-and-forth of almost-insults quite well, "I resemble that remark, ya know." After the laughter died down on both their parts, Dean asked to talk to his dad. When they were done, Harry talked with Remus, and eventually the phone made the rounds, letting all three boys talk with their highly nonconformist family back in South Dakota.

Once the phone call had finally drawn to a close, Dean and Harry dragged a much-protesting Sam outside, heeding the call of money. The IDs worked to get them in the door of Circus Circus. After making the other two _promise_ to meet back at the front door at two, Sam watched as Harry headed for the table games and Dean followed the signs to the Poker Room. Knowing that he'd never hear the end of it if he didn't actually _use_ the fake ID, Sam wandered around the slots for a little while. Finally locating one that wasn't asking for a bet in dollars, he sat down and stared at it. _Why's it feel like the first time Uncle Remus handed me a Greek poem and told me to translate it?_

"First time gambling, dear?" the elderly woman who was sitting at the next machine over asked. Sam looked over. She was probably somewhere between seventy and eighty, with a deeply lined face, a cap of pink-rinsed curls, and was wearing a plain gray sweatshirt with a pair of the biggest those-have-gotta-be-fake diamond earrings Sam had ever seen.

He nodded, "Yeah. I didn't really wanna come, but my brothers made me. I know I won't hear the end of it if I don't at least _try_ it a little."

She smiled, showing the source of many of her wrinkles. "I know how that can be, darlin'. My daughter brought me to a casino, oh, about ten years ago. I didn't think I'd like it all that much, myself. But I ended up having more fun than I thought I would, and have been coming back a couple of times a month ever since."

Sam returned her smile. He kinda liked the old girl. "So, you have any advice for me?"

She nodded, "You betcha. You stick with me, honey, and I'll show ya the ropes. I'm Annabell Lewiston, though most of my friends call me Anna."

"I'm Sam Winchester," he replied, taking her proffered hand.

"Good name, that. Strong. First things first, Sam, don't wander around looking like a lost puppy. The doorman may not have spotted your fake, but the security guards have a nose for it."

Sam blinked. "Huh?"

"Oh, come on, dearie. I may not be as young as I used to be, but there's nothing wrong with my eyes. You're what? Sixteen'd be my guess." She nodded, "Yes, you look an age to my youngest grandson. Most guards won't look too close at your face if you look like you know what you're doing. You're tall enough that they won't automatically think 'kid' if they see you."

Sam couldn't help himself, he chuckled. "Okay – no looking like I accidentally wandered over from the midway, check. What next?"

"Good to see we're on the same page, hon. Next, about gambling in general and slots in particular. First off, never come thinking you're going to win _anything_, let alone win _big_. Lady Tyche isn't too fond of people who just naturally assume her favor." She glanced sideways at Sam, almost as though expecting him to ask who she was talking about.

"I've always liked the Greek version of her name better than the more common Roman 'Fortuna'," Sam replied.

Anna laughed delightedly, "Oh, an _educated_ boy! That's so rare nowadays. In any case," she calmed herself a little, "the next thing to remember is to never come in with more money than you can afford to lose. Sure, it may _sound_ like simple common sense, but you'd be surprised at how often folks get tied up in thinking 'Well, _one_ more C-note won't hurt' and before they know it, they're selling their car and hitchhiking home."

"Okay," Sam was oddly amused at Anna, and glad he'd run into her. "No looking lost, check. No assuming Lady Luck's favor, check. And no bringing more than I can afford to lose, check."

"Right. Next, on to slots. I don't do table-games; most of the time they're too expensive for my tastes. With slot machines, you need to remember that they're all just that, _machines_. They're automatically rigged to run in the House's favor – play any of them long enough, and you _will_ lose everything. There are two basic types of slots, the mechanical ones and the computerized ones. Personally, I like the mechanical ones better. They're simpler to understand the various lines and payouts; though the bonus games on the computerized ones can be fun, too."

Over the course of the next hour, Sam learned more than he thought possible about how to play slot machines. When Anna finally indicated it was time for her to head on home, Sam was up about five hundred dollars and had to admit, if only to himself, that he'd had fun. He took his winnings to the casino's in-house restaurant since his stomach was reminding him it was dinner time, and made his way through part of the buffet. It may not have been the best food he'd ever had, but it filled the hollow spot nicely.

From the restaurant, Sam headed to the casino's indoor theme park and bought a day-pass, even though it was only going to be open for another four hours or so. He managed to ride all the rides – saving himself the almost fifty dollars the rides would have cost him had he paid by-the-ride. He also spent a little time playing some of the midway games, winning a couple of posters and a shot glass at the dart game and milk-bottle game respectively. After the theme park closed at midnight, Sam wandered back over to the casino proper and used Anna's advice to regain the money he'd spent on dinner and at the park.

While Sam was doing whatever it was he was doing, Dean quickly located a low-stakes game of five-card draw and laid his money down to join in. Of all the gambling opportunities offered in a casino, Dean liked the card games best. Not only were they the ones he'd played most – granted, most games had been friendly ones among their family – but they were also as much skill as they were luck; knowing when to bet, when to hold, when to fold, and when your opponent was bluffing… The card games drew him in a way nothing else could. He managed to work his way up to a mid-stakes game by the time his watch indicated he needed to meet back up with Sam and Harry. He ended the night with just about two grand more than he'd started out with; not to mention four phone numbers and a half a dozen free drinks. All-in-all, not bad for an evening's work.

Harry, on the other hand, rapidly worked his way though a 'lucky streak' at the craps tables. He didn't feel at all guilty about using a hint of wandless magic to make sure the dice landed how he wanted. The way he figured it, any given casino brought in literally billions of dollars in profit each year – they could afford to 'share' a little of it with him and his family; particularly since they provided a vital, yet unnoticed, service to humanity with their hunting. The main problem he ran into was delicately balancing his wins versus the occasional streak of losses so as not to arouse the suspicion of the guards, but still come out ahead of the game. He ended the night with approximately ten grand more than the three hundred he came in with.

The next day, Friday, Dean returned to the poker tables, this time at a different casino, and Harry and Sam indulged in a little 'geekiness' by touring a couple of the museums in the area. That evening, Dean called up one of the girls who'd given him her number that first night, and took her to a concert. She wasn't the most beautiful of the girls he'd flirted with, but she _was_ the most interesting. By the end of the night, he'd learned a full dozen new dirty jokes and limericks which he'd not known before.

Saturday found the boys back on the road, covering the final leg of their journey to the San Francisco area, though they wouldn't be venturing into the city itself, sticking to the eastern side of the bay. It was just shy of noon when they pulled up in front of their new home, at the corner of Atherton Street and Channing Way, only a couple of blocks from the University of California-Berkeley campus.

With all three of them working together, they had the truck unloaded inside an hour. The majority of the space inside had been used for their bikes and not furniture or boxes. Once the boxes had been moved inside, Sam and Harry started unpacking while Dean returned the truck and picked up lunch. Neither of them were worried about Dean getting home – he _did_ know how to apparate, after all. After Dean returned with some pizza and a case of Pepsi, they ate and then got down to unpacking in earnest. It went a lot quicker with both magicians there, especially after what little furniture they actually owned was assembled; an inverted packing charm had CDs and books flying through the air. Sam took it on himself to write up a list of the oddments they still needed to pick up – including some dishes and a lawnmower, and groceries – while the other two worked on the boxes. They finished in time to catch dinner at a diner just off the campus. While there, Dean used the payphone outside to let their family know they'd made it in one piece.

* * *

_August 30, 1999_

Harry wove his way through the thronging mass of people, heading for the registration table that had 'P' repeated on every one of a dozen or so balloons tied to the corner of it. _Knew I was right in getting here early_, he thought. It was only ten to nine in the morning, and registration would run until six that night, but there had to be nearly a thousand or more people already there. It was a mix of families and students, which helped. If it had all been students, Harry doubted that they'd _ever_ get done standing in line. As it was, there were only a couple of people in line ahead of him – two girls with California-blonde hair and tans, a guy in shorts, and a guy who had a guitar case slung over his shoulder.

Eventually, he managed to snag his schedule for the first semester, his orientation packet, and the obligatory campus map. His next stop would be the 'W' table, to pick up his brothers. Then they could hunt down where they were supposed to get their student IDs. If the lines weren't too long, they just might be able to get done just in time to join up with their orientation group.

Luck was with them, right up until they realized that they were each part of a different orientation group. "Well, that ain't right," Dean muttered.

Harry shrugged, "Screw 'em if they can't take a joke. Whose group's closest?"

They compared meeting places on the map and determined that Sam's group was closest to their current location.

The upperclassman responsible for Sam's orientation group was an overenthusiastic red-head who had more freckles than skin and a twittering laugh that set Harry's teeth on edge. She took it in stride that both he and Dean joined her little group – though the way she shamelessly flirted with Dean for the remainder of the hour before they were scheduled to begin may have had more to do with why she wasn't upset about two 'strays' than anything else. The rest of the group contained the kid with the guitar Harry'd seen earlier, a couple of internationals from the Pacific islands, and a few other anonymous sorts.

At a shrill beeping from their leader's watch, she whistled loudly. "Okay! Can I have everyone's attention! We're going to begin!" One by one, the group quieted and looked to her. "Good. I'm Shelly Cartwright. I'm a junior this year, majoring in bio-chem. I'll be your guide for the remainder of today, but if you have any questions, feel free to call me at any time. My number's listed in the student directory you all should have in your orientation packets." She made a vague 'gather 'round' gesture. "Let's all get in a circle and get this show on the road!" It didn't take long for everyone to find places to sit. Their location was a nicely shady, grassy hillock bordered on one side by a low hedge. "Okay! Now, what we're going to do is go around the circle and tell who we are, where we're from, what we plan to major in, and one odd fact about ourselves. Sound fun? Good!"

Dean, Sam, and Harry exchanged looks with one another that plainly stated that they each wanted to strangle the girl.

"I'll go first! Like I said, I'm Shelly Cartwright, a bio-chem major from Indianapolis, Indiana, and I was struck by lightning when I was fourteen." She looked to her right.

"That explains why she's a few Cheerios shy of a bowl," Harry whispered just loud enough for Sam and Dean to hear.

The guy sitting next to Shelly looked like he'd spent far too much time behind a computer screen, munching Twinkies, and not near enough time outside in the sunshine. "Dave Ingot, Milwauke, Wisconsin. Gonna major in computer science and I know how to make eighty different paper airplanes."

A couple of equally-boring individuals introduced themselves before it was Dean's turn. Dean grinned, "Dean Winchester, from Eagle Butte, South Dakota – goin' into engineering. I've had over three hundred stitches and five broken bones in the last five years."

Sam and Harry both winced a little, knowing that over half the stitches and all the broken bones had happened three years earlier when a poltergeist had thrown Dean through a third-story plate-glass window. _Still don't know how he managed to pull through that one,_ Harry thought. _Hell, even the doctors were surprised that he woke up. And to look at him today, you can't even tell. Well, there _is _that one scar on his back – it was too deep for the salve to remove completely, but it's still not that impressive._ Dean had to elbow Harry to bring his attention back to the group.

Harry shoved Dean in retaliation, even as he answered, "Harry Potter, also from Eagle Butte. Pre-med. Hmm… Odd fact… Odd fact… Oh. I was adopted by these two," he jerked his thumbs at Dean and Sam, grinning the whole time, "and ya can't get much odder than _that_."

The comment earned him swats from both Winchesters before Sam introduced himself. "Sam Winchester, again from Eagle Butte, South Dakota. I think I'll major in history. Maybe," he grimaced at himself. _Way to sound intelligent there, Sammy._ "And I'm fluent in Latin, conversant in ancient Greek, and literate in Sanskrit."

One by one, the remainder of the group finished introducing themselves; the guy with the guitar was apparently the only other 'interesting' person among them. "I'm from Seattle and my parents have the worst sense of humor imaginable, otherwise why would they have named me 'Vincent Daniel Price'?" It took about half a millisecond for Harry, Sam, and Dean to get the joke and start laughing; most of the rest of the group simply looked confused. His 'odd fact' was that his babysitter when he was a kid was none other than Kurt Cobain, who had also taught him the beginnings of how to play the guitar.

The remainder of the day was spent in learning the campus, stopping by the bookstore for their books, and generally making nuisances of themselves. Their first week consisted of more 'getting to know you' style meetings, a series of placement tests to see what general education requirements they could pass on, and meeting with their advisors.

Vincent quickly became one of their favorite friends, and was often seen hanging out with the three brothers. Shortly before Thanksgiving break, a half-Japanese girl named Janie Yanoshira seemed to take a liking to Sam and started hanging with them, too.

* * *

**A/N2: **And this is the last of the set-up chapters. After this, I'll start getting into some actual _plot_ (shocking, I know), now that I've got the principle characters in place.

I should mention that I completely made up the whole drag-strip-on-the-flats – I tried looking up info on how a civ could do something akin to riding around out there, but I didn't get much useful information. If any of y'all know the facts on this, please lemme know – I probably won't change the story, but it'd be nice to know just how far from reality that portion of my tale really is. I also totally made up the motel they stayed at in Reno, though Circus Circus is real enough (one of my earliest memories involves winning a little trophy at one of the midway games there – I wasn't even two years old at the time). And their house in Berkeley is a real residence, but (from what I could see on the satellite photos) I completely made up how it looks and what its house-number is.

Before I forget, the next chapter for 'Three Times…' should be out sometime in the next week, so if y'all're following that one, keep an eye out. As of now, no real clue on when the next update for AaO will come out, but I _am_ still working on it.


	4. Set Out Running, but I Take My Time

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by Eric Kripke; various production elements including, but not limited to, Warner Brothers and the CW network. The title for this fic is a line from _Get Out Alive_ (© Zomba Recording, LLC & Sony BMG Music Entertainment & Three Days Grace. Track 7 of the 'One-X' album) and the title for this chapter is a line from _Friend of the Devil_ (© Warner Bros. Records & The Grateful Dead. Off of the album 'American Beauty'). No money is being made from this intellectual exercise and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Yeah, this skips ahead again, but not as much as before. I hope I don't tick off too many of y'all, but it was necessary.

* * *

**Run for Your Life**

_Set Out Running, but I Take My Time_

_December 27, 2002_

"Thanks anyway, mate. Tell Ellen I send my love," Remus waited for Bill to make his own farewell before hanging up. "Bill just got back from Orlando, but he's not heard from John since before he left. Ellen said he dropped by the Roadhouse on his way to New Mexico, but didn't stay long."

Bobby nodded to show he'd been listening, but didn't turn from the computer screen. "Damn it," he grumbled after the page finally finished loading. "Where're those damn kids when ya really need 'em?"

"Don't look at me, Singer. You know that ruddy machine hates me," Remus cautiously approached his longtime friend and peered over the older man's shoulder. "'Subscriber not found'. I guess that means tracking his phone is out of the question."

"No shit, Sherlock." Bobby removed his ball cap and scratched a spot on the top of his head before sighing. "Damn it, John, just what the _hell_ d'ya think you're doin'?" he whispered.

"Who knows?" Remus replied. "I love the man like a brother, but he's got a knack for sideways logic I've never really been able to figure out."

"He's also got a knack for findin' trouble," Bobby said as he closed the internet window and told the computer to shut down. "You're sure that spell you did's right and he ain't hurt or worse?"

Remus nodded, "If he was injured, the results would've said so. He's just… unavailable."

"I need a drink," Bobby grumbled as he climbed to his feet.

Remus glanced out the living room window; bright noontime sunlight glinted off of the fresh snow from the night before. "Bit early for that, isn't it?"

"That's what you think," Bobby headed for the kitchen. "I just realized we should pro'ly call the boys, let 'em know what's goin' on."

Remus grimaced and wrestled down the desire to join Bobby in that drink. "Let's give it a couple of more days. If we've still not heard back from John by New Year's, we'll call them then, yeah?"

* * *

_December 31, 2002_

"Hey, Janie, have ya seen Dean 'round here anywhere?" Harry shouted over the music. Janie looked up from her conversation with one of her fellow computer geeks and nodded, her bright pink pigtails swaying with the motion and gestured in the direction of the kitchen. "Of _course_, silly me," Harry mumbled, weaving his way through the crowd.

Even Harry wasn't quite sure how it had happened, but somehow he, Dean, and Sam became notorious for throwing the best parties. Maybe it was because their house wasn't on campus, but still within drunken-partier walking distance. Maybe it was the fact that, especially after that first January, they always had a supply of decent beer in the fridge. He supposed it might have had something to do with that first New Year's bash they'd thrown; some stupid frat-boy thought he could take Dean in a fair fight, something about how there was 'no way in hell an engineering geek could take on a football player', and had been shown the error of his ways when Dean had laid him out cold with a single right cross. Or maybe it'd been the moronic film major who'd thought he was God's gift to archery – not only did he lose spectacularly to all three brothers, but Sam even went one better and bested the idiot's bow with a thrown pairing knife – during the party they'd thrown for Dean's twenty-first. Or there was that time when... well, suffice it to say that a party at the brothers' house was never a dull affair.

Half-expecting to see Dean either working his way through the platter of nachos that had shown up with his flavor-of-the-week or entwined with said flavor, Harry was pleasantly surprised to see his expectations proven wrong. Dean was deep in conversation with Vince, and didn't even look _that_ drunk. The music wasn't nearly so loud in the kitchen, but it was still loud enough that Harry couldn't hear their topic of conversation from the door. He crossed the room, ducking around Goliath – the black man was about twelve feet tall and could have made ten of Harry, but was one of the kindest, gentlest people Harry knew, and one of the few who were in the pre-med program with him because they wanted to help people, not get rich – and tapped Dean's shoulder.

"…because it just ain't right, ya know?"

"I hear ya," Vince said, taking a swig of his beer.

Dean glanced over his shoulder, "Whacha need, Harry?"

"Dude, we need to talk. Where's Sammy?"

"Last time I saw him, he was showin' off at the dart board. Think he an' Janie'll ever get their act together?"

Vincent chuckled, "Dunno. They've been dancin' around each other for what, a full four years now?"

Dean laughed, "Yeah, that's about right." He sat his beer down on the counter and turned to Harry, "What's this about?"

Harry met Dean's eyes and let his expression become serious, "Bobby called."

"Meet ya on the roof in ten," Dean replied, more than half-convinced this was going to be another 'weekend hunt'; their family knew that classes resumed on Monday.

Fifteen minutes later, Dean was lending a hand to Sam as the youngest of the three scrambled up the tree in their back yard and out onto the roof of their house. Dimly, they could hear Kyle Matheson announce from his portable DJ booth that it was ten minutes until midnight. Wasting no time, Sam strode across the asphalt shingles to where Harry was already perched on the roof of the dormer over the upstairs hall. "What's goin' on?" he asked taking a seat next to Harry.

"Bobby called," Harry replied.

"Yeah, you said that. What did he need?"

"Remus found some information about what might've killed your mom and John left to investigate. He ain't checked in in over three weeks."

Sam's forehead scrunched in thought, while Dean visibly paled. "Dad's _missing_?"

"Sure seems that way. Bobby said no one's seen him since he left – not Pastor Jim, not Raven, not Caleb, _nobody_."

"Has Remus tried a tracking spell?" Sam asked. He might not have been a mage like Harry or Dean, but he likely knew more about magical theory than anyone else in their family.

Harry nodded, "He did, but it comes back inconclusive. Either somethin' bad's happened to John or else he don't _wanna_ be found."

"He's not dead, he can't be," Dean muttered, running a hand through his close-cropped hair. "Do we know where he was headed?"

"Some little piss-ant town in New Mexico – apparently there was a fire there, like the one that happened to your place in Kansas, only the mom survived. Bobby checked, but no one matching John's description has been through there since he disappeared."

"How do we know this isn't like what happened with Clifton?" Sam asked. The hunt Sam was referring to had been back in '96, and it had involved one of the worst strings of bad luck _ever_ in their family. John had lost his phone early in the hunt, dropped into an underground river, before getting thrown into a cave wall and earning himself a severe concussion and a dose of temporary amnesia. The only reason John had been off on his own on that one was because Remus had needed Bobby's help concerning a stubborn poltergeist in Amhurst. "I mean, you tried a tracking charm back then, too, and got the same results."

Kyle's muted voice indicated they'd reached the five-minute mark to the New Year. "Yeah, we did, but that was before we did a trace on his truck," Dean replied. "Has Remus gone that route yet?"

Harry nodded, "He has, but the protections we put into that damn thing are interfering with the trace." After the third time a disembodied, pissed off spirit had possessed John's GMC, Dean and Harry, using Sam's research, had taken the time to include a series of set-spells on the truck.

"Damn it," Dean swore.

"What was the name of the town he was heading for?" Sam asked.

"Silver City," Harry replied.

"Your knack for not liking anywhere with less than a million inhabitants is showing," Sam teased, referring back to Harry's earlier description of the town as 'piss-ant'. "But… I'll get online, see what I can find."

Dean nodded and said, "You do that, geek," before turning to Harry. "We got the shit for a tracking spell, right?"

Harry mimicked Dean's nod, "Yeah, think so. Whacha plannin'?"

"Ain't no spells on Dad's logbook –"

"And John doesn't go _anywhere_ without it. Good plan."

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the house, Janie Yanoshira was searching for Sam. Janie was only about six months older than the youngest Winchester, and when she'd first met him she'd just been happy not to be the youngest person in her class for the first time since kindergarten. It wasn't until a couple of months after she starting hanging out with him that she realized she really liked him as more than just a friend. However, he didn't seem to pick up on the subtle little clues she kept dropping. Short of showing up naked in his room, she hadn't been sure how to get her point across; and she hadn't done _that_ simply because she hadn't wanted to die – the brothers shared a room for sleeping in their house, apparently they always had, but each had their own room set up for their hobbies and whatnot – and she knew the rumors of the large knife under Dean's pillow were extremely accurate. Dean's 'room' was the garage, Harry's was a weird sort of cross between a study and a laboratory in one of the house's other bedrooms, and Sam's private space was what once was the dining room of the house, but now held numerous bookshelves, his computer desk, and – of all things – a dart board mounted on a thick piece of plywood on one wall (the house itself had a second dart board in the living room, as well as a pool table on the back porch).

Janie bumped into Vince at the foot of the stairs, "Hey, Vinnie!"

Vincent rolled his eyes, "I hate that name, _Jane_."

Janie scowled before smiling brightly, "You know where Sam went?"

The music major readjusted the strap of his ever-present guitar case and shrugged, "Dean said he saw him at the dart board earlier, but Harry mentioned they'd got a call from their uncle. They're probably still up on the roof."

"Domo," Janie started to sprint up the stairs, "_Vinnie_!"

While Kyle announced the start of the one-minute countdown to the New Year, Vincent muttered, "One of these days, Jane. One of these days…"

Janie didn't hear him, but if she had, she wouldn't have been at all surprised. She and Vincent, along with Harry, Dean, and Sam, all argued incessantly, trading quips, threats, and horrible nicknames like baseball cards. Though she normally didn't mind being thought of as 'one of the guys', she really thought she could be so much more. _That would be why you're trying to find Sam, girl._ The sound of Kyle announcing thirty seconds to the New Year added just a little more speed to her feet. She knew that she could climb onto the roof from the window at the end of the hall. The countdown had reached fifteen seconds, and she was halfway to the window, when she saw a pair of sneakers appear outside the glass, followed by a pair of extraordinarily long legs. _Looks like they're done talking_, she thought, hurrying over to the window and opening it.

Janie lent Sam a steadying hand as he scrambled through the window. The countdown of the partiers downstairs – _FOUR, THREE_ – loud enough that his quiet, "Thanks," went unheard though not unnoticed. Sam climbed to his feet and straightened his blue-and-white button-down even as the countdown reverberated through the house. _TWO! ONE!_

Without knowing how or even why it happened, Sam suddenly found himself being kissed rather thoroughly by the girl-geek of their group whose hair was bright, bubblegum pink that week and had been Kool Aid purple the week before. Sam had known, of course, that Janie was a girl, but there was a difference between knowing a fact and having irrefutable proof of her girlieness pressed against him. His brain tried to interrupt, _Whoa, there, Janie, just what the…_, but the train of thought derailed before it even left the station as other parts of him told his brain to stuff it. _Thinking's overrated_.

Unnoticed by either Sam or Janie, Dean had followed his brother over the edge of the roof and was dangling by his arms, his face just low enough to see through the still-open window. After hanging for almost a full minute and realizing that neither Janie nor Sam were showing any signs of coming up for air anytime soon, he started laughing.

"What's so funny?" Harry asked, poking his head over the edge of the roof.

Dean swung sideways a little and jerked his head to indicate Harry should join him. "You gotta see this," Dean kept his voice low, but wasn't convinced that Sam and Janie would have heard him, even if he'd shouted as loud as he could.

It didn't take long before Harry hung next to Dean in front of the open window. He had to laugh, too, at the sight. "I suppose that answers _that_ question!"

While the party continued onwards downstairs and Sam disappeared with Janie, Harry and Dean settled themselves in Harry's 'lab'. Sure, they could have used the garage, but they were less likely to be interrupted in the lab.

"Okay, so… If I remember right, we need somethin' connected to the logbook," Dean said, locking the door behind them.

"That we do. Think I've still got that page John gimme with Bobby's cell phone number on it," Harry replied, heading for his exceedingly messy desk.

"You _ever_ throw anythin' away?" Dean smirked as Harry rummaged through a succession of drawers.

"Sure I do. Just not when it might still be useful," Harry said, not even bothering to look up. "Here it is." He snagged a battered piece of half-size notebook paper out of a pile of what looked like receipts and at least one napkin from McDonalds.

Dean retrieved a well-worn nub of chalk from the surface of Harry's workbench and started drawing on the scarred wood floor. "You need to pick up more chalk, dude."

"I know. It was on the list, but we didn't head to that part of the store when we were there today," Harry said.

Once Dean was finished, Harry sat the piece of paper in the middle of a simple design. A rough circle with an 'N' at the north point and an 'S' at the south surrounded another circle of eight question marks (the dots for which were to the center of the design) at the eight compass points. "You remember the spell?"

Dean rolled his eyes, "Dude, I'm not an idiot."

"Just making sure some chick's number hadn't pushed it out of your head yet."

Dean thwacked Harry's shoulder, "Stuff it, shrimp."

"On three?"

"On three." They retrieved their wands from their preferred carrying locations – Dean's left boot and an invisible pocket on Harry's jeans respectively – and Dean counted, "Pi, the square root of negative one, _three_."

Simultaneously, they intoned, "Ostendere origo locus." (1)

Twin bursts of mauve light jetted from their wands and hit the paper, which then ignited with a periwinkle blue flame. The flame, after consuming the scrap of paper, spread to the chalk marks, which glowed brightly for a split second before everything went dark once again. The design now showed an arrow pointing to the southwest. The chalk from the other question marks had reformed to display '860 – 3238N, 10810W' in the middle of the circle. Harry copied the information down on the back of a receipt for a pack of gum before Dean cleaned the chalk off the floor. _Not that anyone would really notice it inside a week anyway._

"I reckon we can head down that way tomorrow. We've got what, a full five days before classes start up again, right?"

Dean nodded, "Yeah. I'm gonna go see if I can find Heather. You wanna see if you can clear out the normals, let 'em know the party's over?"

"Sure."

Now that the main event had been achieved, most of the partygoers were beginning to clear out on their own, so it didn't take much effort for Harry to convince the lingerers to head out. He borrowed Kyle's DJ mike long enough to announce, "I don't care if ya go home, but ya can't stay here." By three in the morning, the only people remaining were the Winchesters, Harry, Janie, and Vincent. Vince had promised he'd help out with the cleanup, but for the time-being was stretched out on the sofa, snoring loudly.

* * *

_January 1, 2003_

There had been setbacks – too many to detail – in his general plan, but things were finally coming together nicely. It may not have seemed so at the time, but that first escapee of Azkaban – nearly ten years prior, mind – had set a delightful precedent. When the aurors finally caught up with Black, he went willingly; he'd accomplished his mission and killed the man who had framed him. This news stirred a hornets' nest of activity at the Ministry, who took it on themselves to reevaluate the cases of _all_ the Death Eaters in Azkaban. No one wanted there to be a repeat of the incident with Black. So, one by one, his followers had been released. There had been a few who hadn't managed an acquittal, like the Lestranges, but they weren't any great loss.

His first step had been obtaining a new body – rather simply accomplished. They were _still_ looking for that Weasley girl. Too bad none of them knew _where_ to look.

His second step was reasserting himself among his followers. Again, it was rather simply done. He placed them all under strict orders not to indulge themselves in the mayhem of which they'd participated during his original bid for domination. All those years of forced incorporeality, with little else to do but think, had him reassess his original goals and actions.

His fourth step was ongoing and involved subtle campaigning in politics to tighten _this_ law and introduce _that_ one. It was the one which suffered the most from setbacks, often needing reassessment of how to phrase a particular law. It was almost gratifying in how, bit by bit, he was stripping the magical community of their freedoms – and the _best_ part was how they were letting it happen. Were _happy_ to let it happen, so long as it was done to 'enhance safety' among them.

No, it was his third – and in his opinion, most important – goal which was causing him the most headaches. He had lost face among his followers by being brought low by the Potter boy, and he aimed to rectify the situation. He had several plans, each more diabolical than the last, which would completely destroy the child mind, body, and soul. There was one small hitch in his plans, though. He couldn't find the brat.

"I can help you with that," a voice totally lacking in anything even remotely resembling an accent interrupted his musings. The self-styled Dark Lord turned from the window he had been gazing out of to see a man he knew for a fact wasn't one of his followers.

The man was of average height, weight, and possessed a bland face which was only shocking in its level of normalcy – the kind of face a person just plain wouldn't remember even ten minutes after seeing it. Palming his wand, Voldemort cocked his head at a slight angle, "And who are you?" He was in a mood for cat-and-mouse.

The man grinned, revealing even white teeth. "I've many, many names. But you," he quirked an eyebrow and stepped one step closer to Voldemort, "can call me Al, if you _really_ need a name."

"How did you get past my followers?"

'Al' shrugged like it was a mystery to him, too. "Just lucky, I guess."

"Just what makes you think I need _anyone's_ help, let alone _yours_?"

The man's grin broadened, though few would have called it a smile. "You're looking for someone. As it happens, so am I. Not the same someone, of course, but they're very close. I can get us in the general area, you can do your bit, and that should send the person I'm looking for out in the world, as he should be."

There was something… _odd_ about the man that set off alarm bells in Voldemort's mind. Perhaps it was an echo of the adage 'like calls to like', or maybe it was just one predator recognizing another, but regardless of _what_ it was, Voldemort didn't care for the sensation one bit. In a blur of motion, he had his wand out and pointed at the intruder. "Crucio!"

The man laughed and caught the bolt of magic in his bare hand. It disappeared in a reddish flash of light that sank into the flesh of the man's arm. 'Al' blinked, and his eyes _changed_. Iris, white, and pupil were all a glowing, iridescent yellow; no longer common brown, no longer _human_. Voldemort had the fleeting thought, _Metamorph_, but it didn't stick long enough to really register in his brain. "That wasn't very nice, you know." Not knowing how it happened, Voldemort was flung up against the wall and held there, his wand lying on the floor where he had been standing. "I had hoped we would be able to strike a mutually-beneficial deal. Unfortunately, you proved yet again just why we normally don't deal with your kind. You're lucky I need you, otherwise your soul would be roasting in the pit right now."

Voldemort didn't get the chance to reply before the man's form dissolved into a cloud of black smoke which rammed itself down his throat.

* * *

**A/N2: **Yes, I know this chapter is somewhat shorter than the preceding three have been, but now that I'm actually getting into the plot – not just setting things up – the shorter chapter length will likely continue unless my musebunny for this gets really wordy. In news from another story, AaO fans – the next chapter for that tale should be up soon – a month at the outside (it's finally starting to come together like I want! Yea for me!).

1. This is _very_ loosely translated to mean 'show me the location of this object's source'. It's not conjugated correctly _at all_. I figure if Rowling can use bastardized Latin for her spells, why can't I? In any case, I would've conjugated it accurately, but I was feeling particularly lazy. If I decide to, at a later point, I may go back and change it, but for now please don't say 'hey, that ain't right!' 'cause I freakin' know so already. Thanks.


	5. Runnin' With the Crazy Crowd

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by Eric Kripke; various production elements including, but not limited to, Warner Brothers and the CW network. The title for this fic is a line from _Get Out Alive_ (© Zomba Recording, LLC & Sony BMG Music Entertainment & Three Days Grace. Track 7 of the 'One-X' album) and the title for this chapter is a line from _Let it Ride_ (© Kaye-Smith Studios & Bachman-Turner Overdrive. Off of the album 'Bachman-Turner Overdrive II'). No money is being made from this intellectual exercise and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Here's the next bit for y'all. I hope you enjoy it!

**

* * *

Run for Your Life**

_Runnin' With the Crazy Crowd_

_January 1, 2003_

Vincent slowly pried his eyes open and patiently waited for all his body-parts to finish checking in before daring to move; one too many mornings after a big party had taught him the hard way that he and alcohol didn't mix all that well. His right arm was slightly numb from having been slept on all night, and he had a kink in his neck, but other than that he felt surprisingly good. He pushed himself into a sitting position on the sofa and stretched. Something popped noisily in his neck, sending a cloud of black glitter momentarily dancing through his vision. When it cleared, the knot in his neck had vastly reduced itself. Taking a deep breath through his nose, he let out a happy sigh. There was coffee brewing.

Removing the hair-tie from his ponytail, Vince crossed the short distance between the living room couch and the archway to the kitchen. His pocket-brush – the head off a normal brush whose handle had snapped off a couple of years earlier – made short work of attempting to tame his rather curly brown hair, and it was back into its customary ponytail a moment after entering the kitchen.

Dean was leaning against the doorframe of the sliding double-doors that separated the kitchen from Sam's study, wearing a plain black t-shirt, scuffed jeans, and no shoes, holding a mug of coffee, and grinning lightly at whatever he was looking at in the former dining room. The older Winchester glanced over when he heard Vincent enter the room and made a 'shh' gesture. Vince nodded and helped himself to some coffee before wandering over to see just what had captured Dean's attention.

It had him grinning, too.

Cuddled up under a quilt on the futon that sat directly across from the door were the distinctive forms of Sam's freakishly-long frame and a messy pile of bright pink hair.

"So where's Harry?" Vince whispered, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Went to get something for breakfast, should be back shortly," Dean replied, slowly closing the sliding door he'd opened earlier when looking for his brother.

Almost as though mentioning his name had summoned him, Dean and Vince heard the front door open. "Food's here!" Harry hollered.

* * *

Sam normally had extraordinarily vivid dreams, all bright colors and crisply clear sound; almost as though his senses during his dreams were digital, while when he was awake they were pulling an analog signal. Though he knew, on one level or another, that this was a dream, it wasn't nearly so vivid as usual. While in the dreamscape his mind had painted, he could recall other times this had happened – half-remembered snippets of images forgotten as soon as they'd come to pass – when the colors looked like they'd been washed through the filters used in most horror movies and the sound was muted as though listening through earplugs.

His dream self sprinted up the rear staircase of Janie's dormitory, one hand wrapped tightly in the dull brown duffel bag that normally housed Dean's lupara and a dozen or more salt-shells, while the sparse lighting flickered steadily, a muted buzzing enhancing the electrical shorts. Sam's pulse hammered through his head as he took the stairs three and four at a time – his extraordinarily long legs finally earning their keep.

Time was growing ever shorter. How he knew this, he wasn't sure, but he had to get to Janie. He _had _to.

Sam finally reached the fifth-floor landing and burst through the door, blowing right past Carrie Lawson, Janie's roommate, and her boyfriend as they stood chatting outside the door to the bathrooms. "Hey, Sam!" Carrie tried to greet him, her voice muffled almost to inaudibility, but he paid her no heed.

He had to get to Janie.

The hallway stretched endlessly before him, florescent lights flickering a dull, grey light on the no-color carpet and making the red brick walls look insubstantial. Ignoring the way his lungs were screaming for air after the sprint up five flights of stairs, Sam pressed onwards to room 512. He skidded to a halt on reaching it.

It was at that moment he smelled the smoke.

Sam reached out to the knob, but jerked his hand away as the searing heat of the metal branded his palm. "Janie!" he shouted, lashing out with his foot to break the door down.

In the backdraft created by the sudden reintroduction of oxygen to the room, Sam had moments to see a shadowy figure looming over what could only be Janie before the explosive smoke ignited and swallowed him.

Sam woke with an indrawn gasp that really wanted to evolve into a full-fledged scream, but thankfully he was able to keep it from going quite that far. He supposed most of that had to do with the fact that last night _hadn't _been a dream – until the _actual_ dream, of course – as proven by the fact that he was currently naked and wrapped leechlike around Janie.

Unbidden, a fragment of conversation flitted through his mind – he'd been about eight or nine, and it was one of the times they'd gone to visit Grammissouri. He'd had a bad dream and had gone in search of a glass of water, only to run into Missouri in the hall. She'd taken him to the kitchen and made him a glass of warm milk as she listened to his dream. When he was done with the drink, she'd told him, "It was just a dream, honey. Nothing bad at all about dream like yours; it was just your brain disposing of some mental garbage. What you need to watch out for is when the dreams are different than normal, like if you end up with one that's in black and white when your normally dream in color, or soundless when your dreams are normally noisier than an action movie. Those dreams, the ones that're _different_… That's when your mind's trying to make you see something really important. Pay attention to those ones, no matter how frightening they might be. They may end up being important later."

Even while he was looking at her, his mind not quite to the 'what-the-_fuck_-really-happened-last-night' stage, Janie opened her liquid brown eyes and blinked a slow, sleepy smile at him. "Morning," she whispered.

Sam wasn't really sure what the appropriate response was supposed to be – girlfriends had always been more of a Dean-thing – so he just ducked his head a little. "I think it is, but I haven't seen a clock yet."

Janie chuckled a little, Sam's demeanor further proving his older brothers' claims that the guy really was extraordinarily clueless when it came to dating. Come to think of it, just where _were _Sam's brothers? Janie was more than a little surprised that she and Sam hadn't woken to water-balloons and the flash of a camera; such were the ways of things in the guys' house. Sam noticed the somewhat thoughtful expression on her face and interrupted her musings. "What?"

Janie shook her head, "Just wondering where your loving family is right now. I sorta expected one or the other or both of 'em to wake us up with a hose or something."

It was Sam's turn to chuckle. _Have to admit, Janie knows us pretty good, doesn't she?_ "That's a good point…" He trailed off, wanting to add in her name, but not at all certain that 'Janie' was appropriate now that they were 'together'. Likewise, he didn't know if 'hon' or some other endearment might not get him hit. Just about the only thing he knew for sure was that 'Jane' would _definitely_ earn him a swat.

Mentally promising himself to talk with Harry sometime soon – he _wasn't _going to Dean with this; he'd never hear the end of it! – Sam thought about getting up, but, considering Janie was effectively pinning his left arm to the futon, the thought wasn't going to get him very far. "Something the matter?" Janie asked.

"Um, no…" Except that he needed to go to the bathroom and was almost positive the fingers on his hand had decided enough was enough and headed off for Abu Dhabi without letting him know.

"Liar."

Sam's light smile deepened until the dimples in his cheeks were pitlike in their intensity. _Okay, maybe I _won't _have to talk to Harry. Seems like nothing much has changed. Except, you know, how everything really _has_. Oh, damn it. Fine. Sam, talk to Harry. Soon. Before you manage to think yourself into a hole. Or, you know, end up pissing off your new girlfriend._ "It's nothing much. Just waiting for the postcard."

Janie blinked at him. "What?"

"The postcard. From Abu Dhabi."

"_What?_" she repeated.

Seeing that Janie now looked as confused about things as Sam felt, Sam took pity on her. "My hand's gone on vacation. Just waiting to see if it was enjoying the trip."

It took nearly a full minute for the implications behind that statement to filter into Janie's uncaffeinated brain. "Oh! Sorry," she quickly sat up, taking the majority of the quilt with her as she did so. When an appropriately snarky comeback failed to present itself to her, she gave up. "Damn your ability to think without coffee," she grumbled, reaching for her t-shirt.

Now _that _was a comment Sam didn't have to angst over – he'd heard it from her many, many times over the past few years. The reply was very nearly instinct. "Well, _one_ of us has to be able to think."

Reacting much the way Sam figured she would, Janie let out a huff of air and rolled her eyes. "When my brain turns on, I'm gonna get you back for that," she said as she was pulling on her jeans.

"Duly noted," Sam replied, wondering if he could reach his pants without getting up, which, considering the circumstance, was fairly ridiculous of him. He could practically hear Dean in his head, laughing at him. _Modest much?_ the mental version of Dean managed through the laughter. _Shut it, Dean._ Sam's jeans suddenly landed on his head, thus ending the 'argument'. "Thanks, Janie," he said, somewhat muffled by the denim.

"Anytime," Janie cheerfully replied as she ducked out of Sam's study.

Still more than just a little confused over what, precisely, he'd managed to get himself into, Sam quickly dressed and followed Janie into the kitchen. Dean, Harry, and Vince were arguing basketball while Janie investigated the take-out bags on the counter for something vaguely edible. After breakfast was over and those with caffeine addictions sufficiently perked, they got down to cleaning up the debris of the party the night before. The mess wasn't as bad as it could have been, it only took five hours and the record still stood at fourteen, but it did lead to discovering assorted bits of underwear in odd places. "Do I really _want_ to know how a bra ended up in the hose for the vacuum?" Harry asked at one point. Vince was the only one who caught the mildly-guilty look on Dean's face.

When the house was finally in as much order as it ever got, the five of them kicked back in the living room with some sodas and sandwiches. "Hey, Vince," Dean broke the comfortable silence.

"What?"

"You up for some house-sitting this week?"

Vincent shrugged and drained his Mountain Dew. "Could. Beats the hell outta rattling around the dorm 'til you get back. Where you off to this time?"

Simultaneously, all three brothers answered with different locations. Harry's was 'back home', Dean's was 'New Mexico', and Sam's was 'Missouri'. Vince and Janie exchanged a look, but Janie was the one who spoke next. "You three want a minute to get your stories straight?" She might as well not even bothered, as the brothers began bickering mere heartbeats after their differing ideas on where to go next had been vocalized.

"Whaddaya mean Missouri, Sammy? The logbook's in New Mexico!" That was Dean, of course, as he jumped to his feet.

"Be that as it may," Harry jumped into the argument before Sam could defend his decision, "It doesn't guarantee that John's there! I think we ought to get Remus and Bobby's help on this and not go runnin' off like a bunch of clueless normals!"

"Thought you said they've already looked and ain't found anything? I just think it'd be a good idea to talk to Grams; you know Dad sometimes goes down that way without tellin' anyone!" The fact that Sam wasn't paying any attention at all to trying to bury his native Midwestern drawl clued both Vincent and Janie in on the fact that whatever the brothers were arguing about, it was serious. Sam only used 'ain't' when he was _really _upset.

While each of the brothers persisted in defending their decisions, Vincent looked over at Janie. "You get the feeling they forgot we're here?" Janie nodded a little in reply, her eyes not leaving the back-and-forth-and-forth-and-back of the triangular argument.

"But didn't Bobby say _no one's_ heard from Dad? Doncha think that includes Grammissouri, too?" Dean started shifting from foot to foot, a prelude to the pacing that would start in if the argument went on long enough.

Sam had that pinched look he normally only sported during finals. "Still, she might know somethin'! I mean –"

"Hey!" Harry's voice was starting to grow a little louder as the Winchesters continued ignoring him. "Can we just look at this _logically_ for a minute!"

Dean snorted, "Sure thing! Point one: We can freakin' _call_ Bobby and Remus – ain't no reason to go all the way back home to talk with 'em. Second point: We can freakin' _call_ Grammissouri, too! Point three: It's only sixteen hours to where Dad's book is, and there's only four more days before school starts up again!"

Harry made a 'hmm' noise and shrugged, conceding the argument to Dean. Sam huffed and rested his head on his hands, elbows propped on his knees. Dean quit fidgeting and grinned – it wasn't often he managed to outthink his far geekier little brothers. As quickly as it had started the argument was over and forgotten.

Vincent and Janie shared a look and Vince spoke, "Um, guys? Wanna clue us in on what's going on?"

Simultaneously, all three brothers said, "Just some family drama." Dean continued with, "So, how 'bout it Vince?"

"I said I would, didn't I? Anyway," he changed the subject, mainly because he knew that he and Janie weren't about to get any more information out of their friends, "when are you heading out?"

"Soon as we can get packed," Harry answered, already heading for the stairs. "Dean, we takin' the Impala or our bikes this time?"

"The car," Dean said, turning to follow Harry, "I still haven't gotten Sammy's bike fully fixed from that storm last month."

Once Dean and Harry were out of the room, Janie turned her attention to Sam, who was still sitting on the sofa, looking like he was drawing up a mental list – which, she reflected, was probably _exactly_ what he was doing. "Sam?"

"Hmm?" he didn't look up from the spot he was staring at on the wood floor.

"Sam!"

"What?" his gaze shifted to her.

"What's going on?"

Standing, Sam let a small smile surface on his face, "Oh, just some –"

"If you say 'family drama' again, I'll hit you."

The smile evaporated. Sam sighed. "Our Dad appears to be missing."

"Why not just call the police?" Vincent voiced the thought before Janie could.

Sam shook his head a little, "They wouldn't know where to look or would end up looking in the wrong places."

"That doesn't make any sense, Sam," Janie replied, brushing a lock of her violently pink hair out of her eyes.

"Look, I really can't explain it any better." Sam's earnest expression did as it had always done and wormed its way through all her doubts and curiosities, making them seem small and insignificant. "Do you trust me?" he asked, stepping within arm's reach of her.

"You know I do."

"Then trust that I can't tell you everything right now. Mainly because _I_ don't quite know what's going on yet," Sam hesitantly, awkwardly reached for her shoulders. "I know I sound nuts, Janie, but…" he trailed of, unable or unwilling to complete the thought and hugged her instead. "Will you promise me something?"

"What?" her voice was a little muffled by his sweatshirt.

"Will you stay here with Vince 'til we get back?"

Janie pulled back some and craned her neck to look up at Sam's face. _Just when did he get so tall?_ she wondered. Out loud, she asked, "Why?"

Sam's eyes were closed and he looked like he was remembering something particularly painful, "Just… Please. Stay here until I get back, okay?"

Janie didn't know why it seemed to be so vital to Sam, but staying at the brothers' place for a few days wouldn't be a hardship. She'd housesat for them before, sometimes with Vincent, sometimes not. "Okay, Sam. If it's that important to you, I'll stay here."

Sam let out a sigh of relief and hugged her close for a moment longer. "Thank you."

"Hey, Sammy!" Dean's voice called down from the stairs. "Move your ass! Daylight's wasting!"

_

* * *

Albus owes me for this. Big time._ It wasn't the first time the thought had presented itself, and likely wouldn't be the last. _Shuffled off here to play babysitter…_ He huffed. _Like I don't have better things to do._ He purposefully ignored the fact that, in all truthfulness, he really didn't have much else to do – such was the hell of retirement; it was either this or golf, and he flat-out refused to ever try that so-called sport _ever_ again. Moody had originally volunteered for the position, but that was before he realized, with the exception of the odd party here and there, keeping an eye on Harry amounted to spending months watching him and those other two guys study and date and otherwise get on with living. Sure, there were occasional road-trips here and there, wedged in among classes and girls, but it wasn't like Moody could follow along on _those_ and remain undetected for long, and the boys were always back in time for classes to resume.

All Moody was really there for was to make sure Death Eaters didn't find Harry – it wasn't like the boy's location was a big secret. Anyone with half a working brain cell would be able to track the kid down. _That probably explains why the DEs still don't know where he is._

After having kept an eye on the occupants of the house which shared his back yard fence for four years, Moody was more than just a little familiar with the boys' post-party routine. First, the oldest boy would wake up at precisely a quarter to nine. Moody didn't know how the kid did it – there wasn't a single alarm clock in the whole damn house. Dean would then make a pot of coffee, presumably the scent of which would wake Harry. Once the two of them had managed to fully awake, one or the other would head to Penny's diner three blocks over and bring back breakfast. And then they'd clean. Not exactly riveting entertainment, but it beat watching television.

As to the parties themselves, they were rather amusing. Moody couldn't even find it in himself to complain about the noise; after the boys' first party, the oldest had taken their DJ friend aside and told the kid in no uncertain terms that if he played that 'hip-hop rap shit' again, he'd string the kid up for use as his own personal punching bag – this conversation had taken place right next to the back yard fence, and so Moody hadn't even needed to use any of his magical spying gadgets to hear it. Ever since then, the kid had stuck to mainly college-pop unless the oldest was looking particularly put-out, then something out of the classic rock arena would be played. Music aside, he particularly enjoyed it when one or more of the boys would be challenged to something; like that time that burly-looking kid had gotten it in his head that Harry had stolen his girlfriend. The fight had lasted all of twenty minutes, and during the first half, Moody had been itching to step in and give Harry some pointers until he realized that Harry was showboating, drawing the fight out longer than was necessary, in order to make a point.

In any case, though he occasionally lamented his assignment, those times were actually pretty few and far between. If he'd been aware of their existence, he would have realized that his 'babysitting' could easily be likened to a housewife's addiction of daytime soaps. He even 'watched' with a bowl of popcorn from time to time.

Dragging his attention back to his duty, Moody drained his own coffee and noted the second out of the ordinary occurrence in the last twenty-four hours. The first had been the boys' little tête-à-tête on the roof the night before. He knew they usually had all their extremely important talks on the roof – why, he couldn't have guessed – but this had been the first time such a talk had taken place _during_ one of their parties. Now, he watched as the three boys packed for one of their trips. It wasn't that they'd never gone away before, but normally, there was at least a week or so of notice. Moody was sure the two oddities were connected and once again regretted the fact that he couldn't really follow on the trips the boys took. He'd once tried to apply a tracking charm to that old car of theirs, but there was already so much magic laced into it that the charm plain wouldn't stick. The same went for their motorbikes.

If he'd thought to turn the sound on for their morning clean-up, he might have known where they were going and head that way himself – he'd done it once or twice before, but stopped when he realized that they were simply random road-trips with no apparent purpose; he couldn't have known the few times he'd tagged along had been, purely by accident, during the boys' vacations and not jobs. But he hadn't turned on the sound and as such had no idea where the boys were heading this time. He resolved himself to keeping the sound on and watching the house a bit more closely than normal – maybe those other two that hung out with the boys would let something slip and give him a clue as to what was going on – because _something_ was definitely not quite right with his neighbors.

It might be nothing, but then again… It could be important.

Besides, it wasn't like Moody had much else to do.

**

* * *

A/N2: **Yes, I know that in SPN canon, the 'special children' didn't start manifesting their powers until they were twenty-two. This is a conscious choice on my part which will eventually be explained later on in the story. Moody, on the other hand, just kinda snuck into the story without me really noticing until it was already done – damn those pesky auror sneak attacks!

Ya know, back when I first started dabbling in these fandoms, I had no idea what it would do to my knowledge-base of assorted topics. I now know far more than I ever thought I'd need to know about Latin, Christianity (um, yeah – not raised Christian), and guns and ammunition (not the least of which is the 'official' name for a breach-action, sawed-off shotgun – lupara).

And am I the only one who finds clueless-about-girls!Sam kinda adorkably sexy? It's almost enough for me to rethink my position as a Dean!Fangirl. Almost.


	6. Into the Flood Again

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by Eric Kripke; various production elements including, but not limited to, Warner Brothers and the CW network. The title for this fic is a line from _Get Out Alive_ (© Zomba Recording, LLC & Sony BMG Music Entertainment & Three Days Grace. Track 7 of the 'One-X' album) and the title for this chapter is a line from _Would?_ (© Columbia Records & Alice in Chains. Off of the album 'Dirt'). No money is being made from this intellectual exercise and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Normally, I tend to write a chapter over a couple of weeks, but as I've been busy on my NaNo project, I've been neglecting my fics of late. However, this chapter sprang almost fully-formed into my head as I was making dinner. Since I'm writing it and posting it directly, without taking my normal day or two to reread and rephrase and otherwise polish it, please forgive any glaring errors you happen across. Also remember to let me know if I've managed to totally confuse you by sending me a PM or a review.

* * *

**Run for Your Life**

_Into the Flood Again_

_January 2, 2003_

The drive from Berkeley to Silver City took, as Dean had estimated, just over sixteen hours. The vast quantity of the drive was mind-numbingly boring; the only real bright spot came about three hours after leaving the house in the bay area. Every quarter of a mile or so, for a full ten miles, there were scraps of carpet lying in the road. It made Dean comment on how morons who don't know how to secure a load should be barred from driving. Harry, who was riding shotgun at the time, merely smirked and asked, "What I want to know is if that was what DuPont had in mind when they called it 'high-traffic' carpet?" Both Winchesters landed swats on Harry for the horrifically bad pun.

They pulled into Silver City a few minutes past eight in the morning, though only Harry was awake to see it. As was the case any time they had to drive all night, the three of them traded off. Sam had dropped into an uneasy sleep in the back seat and Dean had managed to find a position in the passenger seat that made Harry's neck twinge just by looking at it. Before Dean could wake up and direct them to one of unique motels he favored, Harry pulled to a stop at one that didn't seem to be all that different from the ones they stayed in when John or Remus were picking places. He'd already managed to get them checked in before Dean stirred.

"We're there?"

Harry nodded and slid back behind the wheel of the car the three of them shared. "We're here. Now all that remains is to figure out just what Uncle John was looking for."

"Don't look at me – you're the one who talked to Moony and Bobby," Dean punctuated his comment with a jaw-cracking yawn.

"Like I said, all they told me was that Remus found some intel on what might've killed Mary, and John left to check it out." Harry pulled the car to a stop in front of the room he'd gotten for the three of them. Holding up a hand to forestall Dean's reply, Harry continued, "But, if you take sleeping beauty back there and head over to the library, I'll call home and see what details I can wring out of the wolf." He reached behind the seat and retrieved his duffle and the leather satchel Sam had determined was for the laptop before climbing out of the car.

Dean slid across the bench seat and readjusted the rear-view. "Sounds like a plan. We'll head back this way in, say, four hours. Less if we manage to find something."

"Sounds good to me," Harry replied and started to close the door, but paused. "Bring back food?"

"Will do," Dean chuckled and shifted the car into reverse. Using the map Harry had printed off before they left the day before, Dean took note of where their motel was and turned in the direction of the local library, still smiling at Harry's not-unexpected request. Though all three of them had times in their lives when they just couldn't seem to eat enough – Sam's latest (and hopefully last) growth spurt of a full five inches in three months evidence enough of that – Harry ate almost constantly. Though he'd not grown any more since hitting five-eleven, his appetite never seemed to say 'I'm done'. Sure, Dean liked food well enough, and the spicier or greasier, the better, but even he had his limits. On the other hand, when not involved in adding inches of bone, Sam barely ate anything. Bobby liked to think of it as Sam's un-appetite making up for the truly impressive gouge Harry's made to the grocery bill any time the boys went back home for more than a day or two.

After the Impala had disappeared from view, Harry wasted no time in getting settled. Ignoring the roll-away cot in the open closet area, he retrieved his wand from the notice-me-not pocket he had sewn on all his jeans and quickly transfigured the two double beds into three twin-size ones. He sat his duffle on the middle one; Dean would take the one by the door and Sam would have the one furthest into the room. It wasn't something the three of them talked about – in truth, there was no _need_ to talk about it. Dean looked after Harry and Sam. Harry looked after Sam. And both Sam and Harry had Dean's back. That was just the way things were. Their sleeping arrangements were just one of the many unconscious expressions of this natural order.

With the beds tended to, Harry dug out the laptop and spent a full five minutes untangling the power cord before hunting out the jack for the LAN that had led him to choosing this motel over the other options available. _Looks like another trip to Reno or Vegas soon. I'm sick of the damn power cords getting in the way all the time. Dean said he can hook the computer up to one of his magical generators, but we don't know for sure what effect that'd have on the computer. We need some funds so that Dean can work with some el cheapo laptops before sacrificing our main research tool._ Sighing a little, he pushed the thought to the side, resolving to bring it up when they figured out just what was going on in the here-and-now.

Once the computer was booted and connected into the hotel's internet provider, Harry dug his wallet out and retrieved his copy of the calling-card the three of them carried. Unlike either of the Winchesters, Harry simply couldn't memorize the whole series of numbers. He picked up the room's receiver and dialed '9' to exit the local circuit, then called the toll-free number on the calling card. He had to re-enter the card number three times before the system would accept it. The five-digit pin number was a little easier; since they could pick what number to use, Harry had gone with the zip-code for Eagle Butte. _I wonder if anyone would get too pissed with me if I got everyone a cell phone?_ he pondered the thought while the computerized system routed him through to the house phone back home. Normally, no one cared that – once he'd reached seventeen and the age of majority for the magical world – he had access to a substantial pile of gold, but every so often it caused friction. Like when he'd gotten John an original Winchester repeating rifle at an estate auction a few years back. It had taken a long explanation by Remus before the eldest Winchester quit complaining and accepted the gift.

The phone rang twice before being answered. "Singer Salvage, Remus speaking."

"Heya, Moony."

"Oh, hullo, Harry. I take it you three aren't just sitting idly by and waiting for news?"

Harry grinned, "When do we _ever_ 'sit idly by'?"

"Good point."

"Yeah, we're in Silver City, but we've only got a few days before classes start back up. So, just what was it you found that sent Uncle John haring off this direction?"

"Just off the top of my head, it was a string of fires that were superficially similar to the one which had killed his wife. If you give me a mo, I'll go get my notes."

"No problem." Harry heard the distinctive clunking noise the kitchen telephone receiver made when sat on the table. Distantly, he could hear Rumsfeld and Janklow barking and an even fainter sound that Harry was almost positive was Bobby using an electric sander on yet another hunk of rust. He heard Remus' footsteps before the man picked up the other end once more.

"Still there?"

"Yeah, Remus," Harry replied, rolling his eyes. It never ceased to amaze him that though he'd lived in mostly muggle surroundings for the vast majority of Harry's life, Remus was still oddly distrustful of certain muggle appliances, like the computer, telephones, and the microwave.

There was the sound of some shuffled papers and Remus cleared his throat. "Okay… Like I said, the case in Silver City is, at first glance, rather similar to what happened in Lawrence back in '83, but on a somewhat broader scope. In the past year, there've been six house fires, all of which can be considered happening under suspicious circumstances…" Remus trailed off and more paper-shuffling could be heard through the phone.

"And those are…?" Harry prompted.

"Oh, sorry. Um, let's see… Ah, yes, here it is. Firstly, all six homes affected are young families. Each recently added their first child to their households."

"Any way this is just some freaky firebug with a grudge?"

"It's possible, but doubtful. According to the police records and those of the fire department, the man of the house was killed prior to the fire at each address –"

"Which didn't happen with John, obviously."

Remus snorted, "No, really?"

"Leave the sarcasm to the professionals, Moony."

Harry could almost see Remus rolling his eyes at that. "If I may continue?"

"Yeah, you were saying?"

"The man of the house was killed prior to the fire starting at each address and each of them had nearly-identical wounds."

"Suspicious, but still doesn't rule out a living, breathing psycho of the human variety."

The werewolf huffed in exasperation. "Come on, Harry. If I really thought this was something the police could handle, would I have brought it to John's attention?"

"No, I suppose not." Harry sighed and started doodling on the little notepad that was on the end table with the phone. "I take it our researcher extraordinaire has more than some newspaper articles from which he's getting his intel?"

"I do _now_. When I turned this over to John, though, all I really had was the papers to go by."

"Getting sloppy there, old man."

"Watch who you're calling _old_. I can still beat you in a duel." There was a short bit of silence before Remus continued, "Besides, you know how John gets any time a case is even remotely similar to what went down back in Lawrence."

"Yeah, he gives the term 'scary' a whole new meaning. Why don't ya scan the docs you weaseled outta the locals and email them my way – contrary to all expectations, we managed a hotel with internet this time around."

"Will do. Keep me and Bobby posted, will you?"

"No problem."

"And Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful."

Harry chuckled a little, "Aren't we always? Chat at ya later, Moony."

"You too," Remus replied before there was a click and the line went dead.

* * *

Vincent lost the coin-toss, so Janie got to pick the movie. Normally, it wouldn't have been an issue – Janie had a thing for horror movies – but she was also going into her last semester and still needed to get rid of her English requirement and so would be taking Brit Lit starting on Monday. According to her roommate, who had taken the class the year before, the syllabus for the class hadn't changed in the twenty years that O'Donnell had been teaching. As such, Janie figured she could get a jump on understanding the archaic texts O'Donnell was so enamored of by watching some of the movie-adaptations. She fully knew that watching the films wouldn't get her a passing grade alone, but they would go a heck of a ways towards making the subject matter comprehensible. And since Vince had lost the coin-toss, they were watching a movie version of 'Hamlet'. Vince fell asleep less than fifteen minutes into the film. Janie was bored out of her skull roughly ten minutes later.

She toughed out a further fifteen minutes, but her waning attention turned, instead, to the video game she was hoping to have finished developing by the time graduation rolled around. Some of the 3D shading she was using on it wasn't doing what it was supposed to, and she had been having a hard time figuring out where the conflict was. The Prince of Denmark was about halfway through his famous soliloquy when she realized she rather badly needed to use the bathroom.

She hurried upstairs and tended to her bladder quickly. After washing her hands, she stepped out into the hallway and stopped in her tracks. The door for the third bedroom was open. It was just a crack, mind, but in all the time she'd known the three brothers, that particular room had never been unlocked before. The bedroom they shared was never locked, and she'd seen Harry's 'lab' on a couple of different occasions, much like she'd been inside Dean's garage every now and then, and had spent far more time than was probably healthy in Sam's study, but she had never once seen the inside of the spare bedroom before. She'd asked them about it, not long after the first time she'd house-sat for them. Dean had just grinned that stupid little smile of his, the one that said 'Disregard everything I'm about to say as being complete and total bullshit', and replied, "Oh, that? It's for weapons-storage." She'd rolled her eyes at his obvious teasing before Harry confirmed that it was, indeed, storage, since they didn't have an attic or a basement for their 'assorted, yet possibly still useful, junk'. The comment had kept her from asking anything further about the room, but it hadn't completely squashed her curiosity.

And now, faced with an unlocked door, that same curiosity came roaring back. She stepped closer and pushed the door open before feeling for the light switch. In the overly bright glare from the unshaded 100-watt bulb, Janie's brain hiccupped at what she saw. Suddenly, the myriad of rumors she'd overheard regarding the three from Eagle Butte seemed a whole lot more credible than she'd thought at the time. Normally, Janie didn't put much stock in rumors. She knew the guys pretty well. There was no way in hell that they had any sort of connections to the mafia – if they had, they wouldn't be on academic scholarships, but paying their way like all the other rich kids. She further knew that them being a trio of serial killers was just plain absurd; according to the psych class she'd taken, serial killers were, almost without exception, solitary individuals and the guys were anything but solitary. But staring at four walls and a large horseshoe-shaped table bearing a wide variety of rifles, shotguns, handguns, swords, daggers, axes, and other assorted weaponry – _Is that a crossbow?_ – she no longer knew what to believe.

* * *

Dean startled out of the slightly dazed stupor he'd been in from the last three hours of staring at a microfiche screen. Something in his jacket pocked was vibrating hard enough to make an odd pinging noise against his flask. It took a moment for him to realize what it was, but when he did, his brow furrowed and he quickly dug a laminated square of parchment out. Scowling at the new contents of the previously-blank card, he looked around and retrieved his wand from his boot. He hit the appropriate spots on the card to deactivate the alarm, but didn't clear it. He replaced the wand in its normal carrying place and sat the card with the small stack of printouts he and Sammy had cobbled together on the recent unpleasantness. It wasn't a lack of information that the stack was so small – hell, the fires were the biggest news to hit the town since the mayor's daughter received a heart-transplant two years earlier – but more the fact that there wasn't much of use mentioned in the articles; after the first two fires, the majority of the articles were mostly simple conjecture which, though logical for the normals, were just plain wrong.

Sammy reappeared moments later, carrying a couple of printoffs concerning the latest fires, reading over them without looking up. He straddled his chair, which was just to the left of where Dean was sitting, flitting through the town's past to see if anything similar had happened before. "You find anything?" he asked, still not looking up.

"Nothing like what's going on now," Dean sighed. He removed the microfiche spool from the machine and reboxed it before switching the machine off. "Anything crop up in the recent papers?"

Sam shook his head, "Nothing you didn't see from the first few articles." He sat the two new printoffs with the others and his gaze landed on the laminated parchment card. "What's that?"

"Oh, this?" Dean picked up the card and glared at his brother. "This is proof that, when we get back, you and that nosey girlfriend of yours are gonna sit and have a long chat about just what it is we do on these road trips of ours."

"She went into the storage room?" Sam's expression was balanced somewhere between disbelief and outrage. "Just how could she have done that? I thought we kept that room locked."

"We do," Dean made a growling noise. "Harry was the one who packed the weapons this time. He probably forgot to shut the door completely."

Sam echoed Dean's growl. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Whether or not Tara Benchley is gonna get the lead for 'Gothika'?"

For the billionth time, a completely unanticipated comment from his brother made something snap in Sam's brain. "_What_?"

Unmindful of Sam's confusion, Dean continued on, "Because there's supposed to be this naked shower scene with a bunch of other chicks and…" He trailed off when he noticed Sam's expression. "What?"

"Where do you come up with this stuff?"

"Brent Soams – his uncle works for Dark Castle Entertainment," Dean replied, matter-of-factly. "Why? What were you thinking?"

Sam sighed and shook his head, mentally cursing the fates that had led him to be saddled with his movie-obsessed brother. He stood and gathered the printoffs. "If we head out now, we should have enough time to pick up something nice for Harry's last meal. I'm gonna strangle the shrimp for pushing me into this situation."

Dean had to jog to catch up with Sam's freaky-long legs, "Oh, come on, Sammy. No need to strangle him. Coulda happened to any of us."

"Yeah? Well, _you're_ not the one who's gonna have to make your _new _girlfriend think you're nuts."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," Dean teased as they strolled to the Impala. "Besides, the two of you ain't exactly _new_."

Sam halted at the passenger door and glared at Dean over the roof of the car. "What do you mean by that?"

Dean snickered, "Just that the rest of the school thought the two of you were an item since sophomore year, when you showed up together at the Lau's semi-formal."

"We just went as friends, Dean. We never even kissed until New Year's."

Dean held his hands up in mock-surrender, "Hell, _I_ know that and _you _know that. Even _Harry_ and _Vince_ know that, but the rest of the school, little brother… Didn't either you or Janie ever wonder why no one ever asked her out after the semi-formal? I mean, she may be a little out there with her hair, but she _is_ a hottie. Word got around, dude. By the time sophomore year ended, it was generally understood that she was with you, and no one really wanted to try poaching; not after what Harry did to Anna's ex." He paused and grinned a little. "It seems as though our reputation may have gotten a _little_ out of hand."

"Just a 'little', Dean?"

"Whatever works," Dean replied, opening the door and sliding behind the wheel.

Sam delayed joining his brother in the car long enough to send an incredulous, "Why me?" skyward.

* * *

The sound of the door opening was enough to pull Harry from the depths of his nap and into that semi-aware state most people went through on their way from dreams to reality. The scent of pizza was enough to convince his brain that waking up fully would probably be a good idea, and so he cracked his eyes open and pushed himself into a sitting position. He had to blink several times to get his contacts to realign themselves properly.

"Oh, sure. We go off and do all the hard work, and you kick back and nap," Sam sounded honestly ticked off.

Harry quirked an eyebrow at the youngest Winchester, "Who pissed in your Cheerios this morning?" That earned him the patented Sammy Winchester Glare of Death. "Hey, I drove the last six hours and called Remus for some more info after we got here. I figure I'm entitled to a nap." He stretched and yawned. Since his eyes were shut, he didn't see Sam toss his duffle on the bed next to the bathroom wall before leaping over said bed to hit the shortest of the three brothers with a flying tackle that bounced them both onto the floor between Harry's and Dean's beds. Even without caffeine, there are few people on the planet who could fail to wake fully when body-slammed by six feet, four inches of highly trained knees and elbows – Sam had yet to add the appropriate muscle-mass to his gangly frame. "What the –" Harry managed to get out before the remainder of what he would have said escaped in a highly undignified 'oof' noise.

Dean sat the pizza boxes down on the dresser-slash-television stand and retrieved a slice of the pepperoni. He winced a little when he heard the distinctive 'thwack' of someone's head hitting the end table. Heartbeats later, Harry managed to squirm his way out from under Sam and was about halfway across Dean's bed before the ginormitron repeated his flying-tackle maneuver and bowled the both of them off the bed and out the still-open door. Munching on his slice of pizza, Dean calmly strolled over to the door. Harry and Sam were now grappling in the empty parking slot next to the Impala.

Though Sam had always been a little taller than Harry – ever since Sam hit fourteen or so, at any rate – Harry made sure to stay close when fighting someone (or some_thing_) that had a better reach than he did. It made that greater reach less of an advantage. It would be interesting, in Dean's opinion, to see just who would come out the winner. Harry had the greater strength at this point, but Sam's added inches gave him better leverage. He didn't have long to wait.

Harry and Sam ended up in an oddly pretzel-like formation that didn't seem as though it should be physically possible. "Huh," Dean muttered around his last bite, "a tie."

"You gonna tell me what this is all about?" Harry puffed out through the stranglehold Sam had on his neck.

"You didn't close the door to the weapon room," Sam's voice was a little strained, too – Harry had hold of his hair and was pulling on it in such a way that Sam's head was forced back to the limits of his neck.

"So? Not the first time one of us forgot to close it."

"Janie found it, you nitwit."

"Oh," Harry let go of Sam's hair and Sam let go of Harry's neck.

"That's all you have to say? 'Oh'?" Sam made to lunge for Harry again, but the shorter man sidestepped the attempt.

"Um… How about 'Oh, fuck'?"

Sam growled and upped the power on his Glare of Death a notch.

"Look, I'll help you talk to her, if you want. But, it's not _entirely_ my fault."

Sam narrowed his eyes at Harry. "How's that?"

"Hey, who was it that had us pack and leave so quick? I usually double-check the locks on the storage room and on my cabinets before we go anywhere, but Dean wanted me to print out some maps of the area before we left."

Sam's expression softened. "I guess I'll take you up on that offer to help me explain things to Janie."

Harry smiled, "No problem. But, you know…"

Sam nodded, "Yeah. It would only be fair."

From his spot next to the door to their room, Dean suddenly got a bad feeling. "What?" he asked, not sure if he really wanted to hear the answer.

"Well, it seems to me, that had you not been hounding us to leave so quick…" Harry said.

"…That this whole incident could have happily been avoided," Sam concluded.

_Damn it, I hate it when they gang up on me like this._ "What?" Dean repeated.

"You're gonna help explain this to Janie, Dean," Harry smirked at the older Winchester.

"What? Why? You're the one who left the room unlocked and she's _Sam's_ girl!" he stepped sideways so that the open door was just behind him.

"Because you're the _big brother_," both Harry and Sam said it at the same time, though Sam added, "and shouldn't you be setting a good example for the rest of us?"

"Um…" Dean didn't really know what to say in response to that, and so relied on his instincts. He stepped backwards three steps and quickly closed and locked the door.

As barricades go, it wasn't the best, especially considering that Harry not only had his key, but could perform a simple _alohomora _practically in his sleep, but it did give him time to apparate away. Unfortunately, Dean could only apparate to places he'd been, and the only other place he'd been that was in range was the library. That was okay by him, though – the girl working the reference desk was pretty cute. Maybe she'd like to go have a drink with him while he waited for his brothers to cool off a little.

* * *

**A/N2: **Thermopyle raised a question in an 'anonymous' review that I'm sure some of you others are probably wondering about as well. This reviewer wanted to know how the diary-horcrux and the roaming spirit of ol' Moldieshorts came to be one being and not two. To this I have to reply that I rarely – if ever – use the concept of horcruxes in my tales (and I did mention in my ch 1 A/N that this tale wouldn't be using them). I find the concept to be something more suited to a D&D quest than something that makes for good reading. Since I doubt I'll be able to work this into the story itself, I'll explain the diary-thing in a bit more detail here:

In this story, the 'memory' of Riddle trapped in the diary was solely a catalyst; a bit of magic to get someone to pour their 'life' into the diary. In so doing, the energy absorbed by the 'memory' was able to recreate Voldemort's physical self, at which point the incorporeal Dark Lord merged with the new body. So, yes, this means that Voldie, though he's really in his sixties, actually looks like he's only in his twenties (the body he reclaimed was that of his sixteen year-old self), and yes, this also means that Ginny is dead (sorry to all of you who like her). I hope that clears things up.

Reviews are happy, happy things to someone who has managed to make themselves queasy doing research for this fic (and this comment will eventually make more sense in later chapters, I promise).


	7. So Close, No Matter How Far

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by Eric Kripke; various production elements including, but not limited to, Warner Brothers and the CW network. The title for this fic is a line from _Get Out Alive_ (© Zomba Recording, LLC & Sony BMG Music Entertainment & Three Days Grace. Track 7 of the 'One-X' album) and the title for this chapter is a line from _Nothing Else Matters_ (© Elektra & Metallica. Off of the album 'Metallica'). No money is being made from this intellectual exercise and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** I completely made up the creature Sam mentions in this chapter – I was tired and not in a mood to research and so picked a totally random collection of syllables that sounded like they might be wordlike and made it my creature. If the word I made up winds up being a real word out there, then cool for me, but the preceding comment stands.

* * *

**Run for Your Life**

_So Close, No Matter How Far_

_January 2, 2003_

It may have only been thirty-three degrees and damply overcast, but Dean's shiver wasn't entirely due to the weather. He pulled his leather jacket a little tighter around himself and wondered, yet again, just why the freaks seemed to crawl out of the woodwork anytime he was nearby. _I could ask the guys, but I doubt they'd be at all sympathetic. Hell, Sammy's got himself a fellow geekitron – she ain't nothing to sneeze at, sure – but still. He's got a steady girl, even if it took them four freakin' years to realize it. Harry's… Harry. How'd Vince put it? 'Rebound-boy'? Yeah, I think that's right – the kind of dude girls like going out with between serious relationships simply 'cause he's… Whachamacallit… Noble? Nah, not the right word. Quiet? No, that ain't right, either. Nice? Closer, but still not right. Fuck it. Still stands that Sammy's got a serious girl and Harry could have any one of a dozen if he really wanted one. Me? I get stuck with psychos and freaks._ There was a part of his brain that tried to chide him for these thoughts, as he rarely complained in the past, but Dean purposefully ignored it.

The pretty librarian, Laura, turned out to be a college student at Western New Mexico University. In and of itself, not all that surprising. They hung out and chatted for a while until her shift ended at four, then walked to a diner not too far away for some dinner. Their conversation meandered through several topics while they waited for their meal. About halfway through a systematic slaughter of onion rings, her boyfriend showed up, and it all started going downhill from there; but not in any way that really made much sense to Dean at the time. The boyfriend, David, merely joined them, sliding next to Laura. No, David wasn't upset to find his girl having burgers with another guy – apparently most of her friends were guys. Dean was a little disappointed in having to adjust his plans for the evening, but managed to keep it from showing; he'd never knowingly poached on another guy's territory and he wasn't about to start now. It didn't dawn on Dean until he was most of the way through a plate of pie that he realized just _why_ the guy wasn't at all upset.

_Maybe I should get 'Not into Dudes' tattooed on my forehead._ It happened often enough that Dean had gotten the knack for turning down the guys who hit on him without actually hitting them. He shivered again with the memory of David's reply – a heartfelt 'Pity,' and a predatory look that would probably stalk his nightmares for _years_. What was even worse was the look of disappointment on Laura's face.

As Dean walked across the parking lot, he cast a longing look towards the small pub hosted by their motel. It wasn't often that they scored a place with an on-site bar, but Dean knew that if he went for a stiff drink like he really wanted to, he'd never hear the end of it from Sammy and Harry. _It's just plain not fair._ Pausing outside the door to their room, he sighed and plastered his 'no, there's nothing at all bothering me, so don't ask' look on his face. He opened the door and blinked.

The room was complete and total chaos – not unlike that time John had needed to look something up in Remus' library and couldn't find the book – only in this case, there weren't any books to be seen. One of the walls had a large map of the area stuck to it, with certain areas glowing red. There were also what appeared to be nearly a hundred or more little yellow sticky notes adorning random surfaces. Some of these clusters of sticky notes were joined by glowing tendrils of magic to other groups on the opposite side of the room. The photocopies of the articles about the fires that Dean and Sam had obtained that morning hovered over Harry's bed, forming a paper wall that cut the room nearly in half.

_I knew there was a reason why I don't let Harry and Sammy do the research without me._ Dean ducked as a small yellow paper airplane darted over his head, unfolded, and attached itself to the wall. He closed the door before anyone could see inside and get curious. "So, do we know what's going on around here, yet?"

"Not just yet, no," Harry replied, scribbling another note and directing it to a large collection on the back of the bathroom door.

"We're still gathering points of commonality," Sam added, staring intently at the computer screen.

Though Dean could research by himself, he preferred to have Sam help whenever possible – the youngest Winchester had a knack for being able to find important or obscure bits of information in a fraction of the time it took anyone else. When combined with Dean's ability to know which questions to ask, the two of them tended to do most of the research for their hunts; that is, when Remus or Bobby haven't done it for them. The addition of Harry to the researching invariably led to chaos on a scale the likes of which tornadoes could only dream.

Most people think in two dimensions, going from point 'A' to point 'B' and so on. Sam thought linearly. It wasn't that he couldn't make jumps in logic and get from 'A' to 'D', it was more that he preferred having all the details of those points filled in, even if the additional information came after the need for it was over and done with. Dean, on the other hand, rarely needed to know _all_ the details; like most who embrace engineering, he thought in three dimensions – going from point 'A' to point 'D' while bypassing the intermediary points entirely. Harry was a completely different story. Dean wasn't sure there was a term for the way their adopted brother thought; he seemed to have the need to actually _see_ connections between disparate bits of intel, almost as though he were trying to build a physical 'body' with which he could then interact. So, the chaos in the motel room really shouldn't have been that big of a surprise. Yet, somehow, it still managed to surprise Dean every time he ran across evidence of Harry's thought processes.

"What have ya got so far?" Dean asked, twisting around to duck under one of the glowing tendrils that connected a mass of sticky notes to one of the hovering articles.

"Lots of stuff, but not much common to all six families," Sam replied. He stretched and pushed back from the computer.

Harry looked up from the collection of sticky notes covering the front of the television and shrugged, "We'll find out what's going on, I'm sure. The only real question is whether or not we'll figure it out with enough time to get back to school Monday."

Sam scowled, "I hate missing the first day of term."

"We know." Dean didn't much care for it either, but he gave Sammy enough shit about his love of learning that he wasn't about to say as much out loud. "So, you two gonna clue me in on what you _have _found? Or do I have to guess?"

"Look around, Dean," Sam handed Harry another sticky note, "and you'll see everything we've found so far."

Dean rolled his eyes even though neither of them were paying any attention. _It's just not my day, is it?_ Ducking the odd sticky note airplane and weaving himself over and around the connecting strands of magic, he started working his way through the mountain of information spread around the room.

* * *

Vincent startled out of a dream involving playing a fish skeleton instead of a guitar in front of an audience of gypsies while wearing nothing more than a pair of Superman Underoos. He would have questioned the stability of his subconscious if he'd had the time, but the loud crashing noise from upstairs had managed to simultaneously yank him from the dream and wipe it from his memory in one fell swoop. As it was, he didn't even really register that he was awake until he'd already reached the top of the stairs.

His first coherent thought was _Fuck_.

Janie was pissed. That much he could tell simply from the way she was standing, though the shattered mirror which had previously hung on the wall between the doors for the bathroom and Harry's lab would have been the more obvious clue to someone who wasn't still mostly running on autopilot. "Janie?"

"What?"

Vince winced at the flat tone she used. She only did that when she was on the verge of a complete and total emotional blowup. The last time she'd sounded like that, it had taken her roommate almost four hours to get her to stop crying; the time before, she'd kicked a frat-boy hard enough in the crotch that he'd needed surgery. For all that she was normally pretty laid-back, she could be downright scary every now and then. "Um…" Vince scrubbed a hand across his face, "just what happened?"

She flung an arm in the direction of an open door. Vince blinked slowly. Then he realized the door in question was _that_ door – the one that was _never_ unlocked. "Huh." He took a couple of steps towards it, the last vestiges of sleep finally fading away. He poked his head through the doorway and grinned. "Cool!"

Janie made an animalistic growling noise and landed a rather hard slap to his shoulder. "'Cool'? That's all you have to say? 'Cool'? They've been _hiding_ this from us! Lying by omission!"

Vince interrupted her before she could really get going, "Yeah, Janie. This is _awesome_. And what do you mean, they've been lying? Dean said this was weapons-storage back when you first asked."

"I thought he was joking!"

"Not their fault, Janie." Vincent stepped fully into the room and let out a low whistle. "_Damn_. This one's probably worth two or three times what Grandpa George's is worth. About the same size, though."

Vince's unanticipated reaction to the contents of the locked room derailed Janie's thoughts enough that the emotional storm was held back and slowly beginning to dissipate. "What the _hell_ are you on about?"

"My dad's dad. He's got a collection, too. Lives out in Montana, so I don't get to see him very often." Vince lightly ran a finger along the blade of a dagger that had a handle made of either bone or antler. It was surgically sharp, too; Vincent could tell that much without having to press on the edge.

"Confusion rising, homicidal urges not far behind."

Vince chuckled, "It's not that uncommon a hobby, you know, collecting weapons. Grandpa belongs to this national club – can't remember the name of it right now – but I do remember that they've got something like a million members all across the US." He turned his attention from the dagger to an oddly black sword. "Is that iron?"

"How the hell would I know? I'm a computer geek, not a chemistry geek," Janie snapped. "And how can you be all calm about this?"

Vince shrugged, "Like I said, Dean told us what the room was for – it's not our fault we didn't believe him at the time. Besides, it's probably a good thing they didn't talk about it. This place doesn't exactly have much in the way of a security system. Sorta makes sense now, how come they always have one or the other of us house-sitting whenever they go on those random road trips of theirs. I mean, if someone ever broke in, they could probably get close to twenty or thirty grand from the handguns alone. Some of them look like genuine antiques."

If Vincent had looked her direction, he would have seen Janie shaking her head and wearing a puzzled expression. He didn't notice her expression, though he could tell from her lack of an explosive reply that he had managed to calm her down some.

* * *

After following – literally – his brothers' trains of thought back and forth across the motel room for the better part of three hours, Dean had finally had enough. He retrieved his wand and systematically began undoing all the magics Harry had in place. In truth, Harry didn't mind much; he was rapidly coming to the end of his daily allotment of awareness and wanted to start getting ready for bed. Sam, on the other hand, managed to tear his attention away from the computer long enough to scowl. "Hey! What're you doing? This took forever to put together!"

"And you'll still remember it in the morning," Harry replied. "Besides, I dunno 'bout Dean, but I want to get to sleep sometime today. A three-hour nap fourteen hours ago and a half-hour one this afternoon really doesn't add up to the recommended forty winks, you know."

Frowning, Sam checked the clock. "It's only ten. Surely you can't be tired already?"

"Says the kid who slept a full ten hours on the ride down," Dean snarked, undoing the last of the trailing strands of magic.

"Did not. Just because I may've had my eyes closed doesn't mean I was asleep." _Not until Harry took over the driving. Wish I hadn't slept._ He'd had the dream about Janie again, only this time it had taken place at the brothers' house. He wondered what it meant. _Probably just some buried fear. I mean, it's not like I've done a whole lot of dating before and we grew up without any real sort of female influence, so is it any wonder my brain is doing what it's doing?_

"Whatever," Harry turned his attention to moving the articles from the library to a blank section of wall. "Not to completely change the subject or anything, but do we know yet just what it is we're dealing with? Personally, I think it might not be our area. It seems to have all the marks of a serial psycho of the human variety – maybe a mage. Either case, it wouldn't be something for us to deal with."

"Maybe," Sam allowed. "It could be an ashelron, though."

"A _what_?" It wasn't the first time something Sam had said caused that reaction in Dean and likely wouldn't be the last.

"An ashelron," Sam repeated. "You know, the little dark fairy-like things? Supposedly distantly related to a djinn – not that any of the books really say how, exactly – that likes to play generation-long mind games with a particular town or family? It would explain why the only ones involved are young families. They also can command fire elementals… Um… Salamanders, I think." By the look on his face, Sam could tell that Dean didn't remember that particular lesson. Sam sighed. "We learned about them when Remus was going through the elementals? You were… Sixteen?"

Harry snickered, "I remember that lesson. It was that week Dean was dating Corrina Jacobies."

"Oh, yeah," Sam brightened momentarily before realizing that there was no way in hell Dean actually remembered anything from that week – not only had he been dating the sheriff's daughter, but they went behind the man's back to do so. Between the hormones and the stress – even ignoring the whole incident out at the lake that had effectively severed the relationship – Dean had been lucky to remember his own name that week.

Taking no note of Sam's internal walk down memory lane, Dean rummaged around in his duffle. "I dunno, Sammy, this doesn't feel like a creature to me. And have you actually looked at those photos Remus dredged up? They're way too alike for it to be a person, even a mage."

"So what's your theory?" Sam asked as he saved their notes and told the computer to shut down.

Dean shrugged, "Spirit would be my guess."

"But ghosts are usually tied to a specific location – these fires have happened all over town," Sam closed the laptop.

"Could be like that ghost Dad and Bobby took care of down in Louisiana, the one that was linked up in that book." Dean finally located the clean t-shirt and boxers he'd been searching for and tossed the duffle on the floor.

"Could be," Harry sounded thoughtful. "I mean, there's a long enough time between fires that if it was a spirit and the spirit was haunting an object, then the object could have made its way to these different families. But it doesn't explain why each family involved is so similar to one another. All were in roughly the same tax-bracket, all had added their first kid to the mix less than three months earlier, and so on. It's the kind of profiling that serial killers do when picking victims, which doesn't make sense if it's a spirit."

"Not necessarily," Dean argued. "Ghosts, when violent, do tend to go for the same types of people when they're not just wrecking general havoc."

"I still say this reeks of _human_ evil and isn't our area."

"Well, we're not going to figure this out until we get some more information." Sam stood and stretched. "And I thought you two were getting tired?"

Dean nodded, "Yeah. Let's shelve the whole 'what-is-it' until we've all had some sleep."

"Sounds good to me," Harry finished his sentence with a yawn.

* * *

Narcissa wasn't very pleased with her current circumstances, but there wasn't much she could do about it. When the Master said to accompany him, you went with him if you valued your life. It didn't matter that she was still negotiating with the Parkinsons over Pansy and Draco's betrothal, or that there was still massive planning needed for any of the myriad winter parties remaining. She valued her skin, and so when the Master said to come with him, she did. She still had no idea why they were in Atherton, other than she and Lucius owned a vacation home there, but she knew better than to question the Master. Eventually, he would explain. She just needed to be patient and hope that none of the others who had come with on this trip said or did anything to put the Master in one of his 'curse-everything-that-moves' moods.

Moments after the group of eleven arrived by portkey to a tasteful mansion less than thirty miles away, Moody dropped a full teacup when one of his detectors began emitting a long, loud, and high-pitched whistling noise. He strode through the house to what would have been a den had the residents not been a slightly paranoid retired auror and approached a small silver compass. He tapped it with his wand to turn off the alarm before taking note of the glowing numerals on the arrow and the direction it pointed. Moody then headed for the one method of communication the Order had available that no one who supported Voldemort would think to monitor.

Eyeing the telephone with something between distaste and mistrust, he picked up the receiver and dialed the number scrawled on the wall below the phone. It rang six times before a sleep-addled voice answered, "Hello?"

"Granger."

"Moody," the voice on the other end of the line sounded far more awake. "Is there a reason you decided to wake me at four o'clock in the morning?"

"What do you think, girl, I just called to chat?"

"You have before."

Moody glared at the telephone base. "Have not. Only ever called when I needed a halfway comprehensible explanation for one of these damn muggle whatnots."

"So what is it this time, you put a metal bowl in the microwave again?"

"No. The Dark Mark compass sounded an alarm. You need to relay this to Albus."

"Just a moment, let me get a pen." There were some rustling noises in the background. "Okay, go ahead."

"Forty-six-point-zero kilometers south."

Hermione repeated it back to him. "I'll send this off now and call back once the headmaster comes up with a plan."

"Tell him not to take too long."

"Will do, Moody. Talk to you later."

After the call disconnected, Moody resettled the handset on the base and hoped that whatever the DEs were up to, they got it done quickly and left before Harry came back from wherever it was those kids had rushed off to this time.

* * *

Sam had just clicked off the light and lay there staring up at the ceiling. He really didn't want to go to sleep, but knew he probably should. He just hoped that his dreams went back to their normal craziness soon. _They'll probably settle once Janie and I have been going out for a while._ He closed his eyes only to open them a heartbeat later when Harry spoke, "Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You think John might still be in the area?"

"Don't know," Dean replied. "If he is, he's laying low. I called the locals before we left – neither the hospital or the morgue have seen him."

Sam shifted so that he was lying on his side facing Harry's bed. "You two figure out where Dad's book is yet?"

"Not yet, but I'm sure we'll find it – and Dad." Dean had that totally-confident tone to his voice that was only ever present when he wasn't anywhere near as sure as he sounded. "We know he came this way, and is probably still nearby since his book's somewhere in this town. We'll find him."

Sam wasn't sure if Dean was trying to convince him and Harry or himself. He figured it didn't matter much, one way or the other. "Yeah," he agreed. "I'm sure we will."

"Yeah," Harry echoed Sam. "After all, he's chasing the same story, and we're chasing him."

* * *

**A/N2: **I'm not going to apologize for my blatant quoting from the Pilot. I won't and you can't make me. (Grin.) From time to time, you'll see things like that in this story; after all, even with the addition of Harry to the mix, the boys are still pretty much the same people (the Winchesters especially – Harry less so because he wasn't raised in an abusive home).

For anyone who also follows my 'Once, Twice, Three Times…' series, (or 'Redefining…' or 'All at Once', for that matter), I am working on the next installment. I don't know, as yet, when it will be ready for posting. Insofar as my other WIPs are concerned, I've mentioned in other A/Ns that I work on whatever story's musebunnies are screaming the loudest; but for TTiEA, I've got some hellacious research going (yeah, trying to figure out how to blend the beliefs of four or five religions and cram them around both Supernatural and Harry Potter canon in a way that makes sense) and it's been giving me headaches. Hopefully, inspiration will strike soon, so that the next chapter will consent to being written.

Okay, I'm needing a little fanput here. I've got two possible ways to continue this story, and both (at this time) seem like valid options. What I need from y'all is a general baseline on how well you like Janie and how much you like Vincent. So… lemme know, 'kay? Because I need to pick which direction I'm going before I finish the next chapter.


	8. Every Night I Have the Strangest Dreams

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by Eric Kripke; various production elements including, but not limited to, Warner Brothers and the CW network. The title for this fic is a line from _Get Out Alive_ (© Zomba Recording, LLC & Sony BMG Music Entertainment & Three Days Grace. Track 7 of the 'One-X' album) and the title for this chapter is a line from _Feelin' Alright_ (© Grand Funk Railroad & Capitol Records. Off of the album 'Survival'). No money is being made from this intellectual exercise and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** As I've been asked several times through reviews and PMs to explain the humor, I figure I'll go ahead and explain it here so that I hopefully don't have to go through it again (sigh… I suppose this is what I deserve for having a morbid, dry, off-the-wall sense of humor). 'Vincent Daniel Price' is where I tried to be humorous on two levels. The first involves the inherent irony involved in having a character in a _Supernatural_ story share the same name (Vincent Price) as one of the Masters of Horror (check IMDB if you want an overload of intel on what movies he was involved with). The second level of humor – and what the character was referring to in the story – is that his initials 'VD' are a somewhat out-of-date synonym for 'STD' (the acronym in this case stands for 'venereal disease'); because, as everyone knows, life is an STD and is one-hundred percent fatal.

* * *

**Run for Your Life**

_Every Night I Have the Strangest Dreams_

_January 3, 2003_

Trina Marshall was, in her opinion, a rather normal sort of person. Sure, she'd had to deal with a whole host of crap that most people didn't have to, but that was just life. Crap sometimes just _happened_, and it was her turn to be dished a steaming pile. She just hoped that she didn't have to do it again in her next life. Yes, she believed in reincarnation – for the vast majority of her life, she'd had to; it was how she had managed to survive with her sanity intact through yearly open-heart surgeries, unending medications, restrictions on her diet and exercise, and a whole host of dos and don'ts that had ruled her life for longer than she could remember – because if this was all there was, she was going to have words with whoever was responsible for running the universe. But, all the crap she'd dealt with her entire life aside, she was still a relatively normal sort of person. She had just turned twenty – an age she'd been told repeatedly while growing up that she would never get to see – and liked many of the same things other girls her age liked. She was particularly fond of chocolate, chatting with her friends, and making fun of the contestants on reality TV shows.

Lately, though… She was beginning to wonder if maybe she wasn't having a delayed reaction to her meds. She'd started losing chunks of time; sometimes it was just a couple of minutes, sometime two or three hours, and there was that one incident where she misplaced an entire week. Her doctors knew about the missing week. They said it wasn't uncommon to experience something like that after a major surgery. Trina was pretty sure they purposefully ignored the fact that she'd never before had so severe a reaction to any of her preceding surgeries.

At first, Trina had hoped that these blackouts would go away on their own, but they weren't. If anything, they were coming more and more often; sometimes as much as three or four times a week. The latest one was just too much. Trina had gone from getting ready for bed at ten o'clock at night to standing in front of her bedroom mirror wearing a pair of dusty jeans and a dark sweater at nine in the morning. And then there was the matter of that red travel-safe that had just showed up in her dresser drawer one day.

It was small, one of those little lockboxes people bought to store their important paperwork in. It had a shabby black and white photo printed on plain computer paper scotch-taped to the lid. The picture wasn't very high-quality, but was clear enough that she could make out the features of the five guys in it. One looked a little like her dad, if her dad had ever deigned to wear a trucker cap and jeans; another looked like he would have been more at-home in a library, rather than leaning against the beat-up pickup behind them; the third was unnaturally tall, with a mop of shaggy hair, and was holding a V of rabbit-ears up behind each of the other two – a short guy wearing a pair of dark sunglasses and a guy in a dark jacket.

She was done with hoping the situation would resolve itself – she was going to call her primary doctor and make an appointment for as soon as possible. And she was going to pry open that damn box when she got home; maybe it would let her know what she'd been up to during those damn blackouts.

* * *

Sam wrinkled his nose; he really wasn't too into heading to the bar and watching as Dean weasled cash from unsuspecting pool players while Harry egged him on. "Just drop me off at home, huh? You two can go have fun." His words sounded almost as though he were speaking under water.

"You sure?" Dean asked, making a right turn onto their street, the blinking light in the dash sending pulses of dim light washing over his face.

"Of course he's sure," Harry piped up from the shotgun position. He grinned, "Wouldn't you be sure, too, in his place? I mean, if _I_ had a sexy, pink-haired, computer nerd waiting for _me…_"

"Oh, shut up," Sam grumbled, not quite successful in keeping a smirk off his face.

Dean pulled the car up into their driveway and handed the keys to Sam. Sam climbed out and retrieved their bags from the trunk before handing the keys back to his oldest brother. "Have fun," all three of them managed the same comment at the same time, followed by, "Will do, you too." Dean started the car and backed out of the drive as Sam watched, still chuckling a little over the simultaneous speech.

He felt pretty damn good. The case was solved, the innocents saved for another few weeks, and they had a solid lead on where their Dad may be heading. Classes were going to start back up in the morning – their _last_ semester of their _last_ year – and he was easily maintaining a solid 4.0. The night was warmly beautiful, especially when contrasted with the slushy conditions in Silver City, and since it was coming up on midnight, it was about as quiet as it ever got in that part of the city. Turning around to face their house, his chuckling tapered off and his smile broadened. In addition to everything else, he had an honest-to-god _girlfriend_, who also just happened to be the best friend he'd ever made outside of family. His only real regret was the fact that it had taken him far too long to realize just what he had.

Resettling the bundle of duffels he had slung over his shoulder, Sam strode towards the front door, humming a little under his breath. He opened the door, blinking a little in the sudden wash of muted mellow light in the living room. The TV was on, showing the options screen for _Final Fantasy X_ – one of the video games all three brothers enjoyed immensely. _Looks like Vince was trying to finish out that chapter_, he thought, setting the duffels by the door.

"Vince, Janie! We're back," he called out, shutting the door behind him. "Dean and Harry decided to go over to Beckett's, so it's just me for now."

Just as the door clicked shut, the lamp next to the sofa began flickering and the television snapped itself off. The thick stench of ozone wafted through the room.

His pulse pounding sharply in his ears, Sam leaned down and snagged the smallish duffle that housed the weapons they'd taken with them to Silver City.

Without knowing quite how he got there, he was in the kitchen, the pump-action shotgun held in one hand and the other riding lightly on the butt of a Beretta nine-millimeter snugged in his waistband. The coffee maker lay scattered on the floor, its plastic and glass shattered and scattered from the cabinet to the table. The overhead light flickered randomly and a muted, buzzing noise overlaid the scene.

The door to his study was halfway open, and Sam could hear something coming from within. He wasn't too sure what it might be, only that he didn't like the noise _at all_. Creeping up as quietly as he possibly could, he peered around the edge of the door.

The lamp on his desk cast buzzing, flickering light through the room, but it was enough for Sam to see someone crumpled in a heap on the floor. Moving cautiously, Sam checked to either side of the door and stepped into the room. He approached the person, knowing it wasn't Vince – whoever they were, they lacked Vincent's distinctive ponytail. The odd noise he'd noticed earlier was easily identified as Sam leaned down to check for a pulse – it was the wet, bubbly noise of someone trying to breathe through a mostly-broken nose. Sam used a couple of zip-ties he kept in his desk junk-drawer to secure the stranger before moving onwards. The lights were still flickering.

He found Vince first, wedged into the space between the vacuum and the wall in the closet under the stairs. _That's probably gonna need stitches_, Sam thought, spotting a large goose-egg over his friend's temple, the skin was split down its length. He nudged the music-major with his toe. "C'm on, Vince, wake your ass up," he hissed, half his attention focused on listening to the rest of the house.

The motion of Sam's foot connecting to Vincent's leg caused his head to loll back, exposing the gaping gash in his throat and the bright bib of slick blood staining his t-shirt. "Fuck," Sam muttered, not realizing he'd spoken out loud. A flood of thoughts too numerous and chaotic to catalogue crashed through his brain, cumulating in but one more word, "Janie."

Deliberately turning from the rapidly-cooling corpse of his former friend, Sam strode away from the closet. He blinked and found himself in the upstairs hallway, another unknown person leaning against the wall, her legs stretched across the hall. This one was, like Vince, dead; her face frozen in fear. A wand, not unlike Harry's or Dean's, lay close to her right hand. Sam sat the salt-loaded shotgun down and removed the Beretta from his waistband. He chambered a round and clicked the safety off.

Using the half-light filtering in through the windows from the streetlights outside, Sam crept over to the door to the weapons room. Regardless of the fact that it had been opened at some point during the weekend, it was now closed and locked. The doorknob responded to his touch, though, just like it always did. Sam opened it and peeked inside; nothing seemed out of place. He repeated the process on the bathroom door and the door to Harry's lab, neither of which were disturbed.

Slowly, Sam approached the only remaining door – the one to their bedroom – which was uncharacteristically closed.

With his pulse hammering in his ears, he grasped the knob and turned.

"_Sam!"_

He found Janie.

"_Damn it, Sam, wake up!"_

A single image branded in his mind before the flames exploded and devoured his vision.

"_Sam! Alright, that's it, where's the ice bucket?"_

Blood and fear and pain but she was still alive, still _alive_ and he had to get to her.

Something cold and wet shocked him out of his all-too-real nightmare. Sam sat up, his face dripping onto the tangled blanket and sheet wound around his legs. It took several moments for the dream to fade completely and for reality to reassert itself. Harry was still standing at the foot of his bed, an empty glass in his hand. Dean wasn't in the room.

"You okay now?" Harry asked, setting the glass down on the dresser.

Sam nodded slowly, "Think so. Where's Dean?"

"Getting breakfast." Harry sat on his bed and sighed. "You've been having bad dreams for over a week now, Sammy. You gonna clue me in on what's buggin' you?"

Sam scowled, "It's _Sam_, you know. 'Sammy' is a chubby twelve year-old."

"You know and I know that I can get _Dean_ to talk when he doesn't really wanna, so you might wanna rethink your deflections. What the hell's got you so worked up?" Harry resettled himself on the mattress, thinking, _And speaking of Dean, just where the hell is he? He went out for breakfast over an hour ago_. Sam recognized the posture. It was the same one Harry used when he knew he was in for the long haul.

The youngest Winchester sighed. "Nothing. Just dreams."

"That have you whining like an injured puppy in your sleep? Right. Wanna pull the other one?"

"Whaddaya want me to say, Harry? It's just a bad dream."

"That you've had almost every time you've slept for a whole freakin' _week_ now. Tell me this – is it the same one all the time?"

Sam shook his head, "No, not really. Well…maybe. Hell, I don't know."

"What's that s'posed to mean? Either it is or it ain't."

Sam stretched and yawned before answering. "It's…weird. I mean, there's bits and pieces that are the same in each one, but none of them are identical. Where'd my duffel go?"

"Think it's between your bed and the wall there," Harry gestured. "What parts are the same?"

Sam leaned over and retrieved his bag. "Um…something bad's happening and I need to get to Janie." He rummaged in the duffel and came up with a clean shirt and some jeans. "And fire. Always ends with fire."

_And death, I'm sure_, Harry thought, _else you wouldn't be half so freaked when you wake up._ Any further conversation was halted by the arrival of Dean.

* * *

The girl standing ahead of him at the counter looked familiar, but Dean wasn't too sure just why. She was about five feet tall and had plain brown hair cut at her shoulders and looked like she'd probably just got out of high school. She was wearing black slacks and a blue blouse. In other words, about as ordinary a person as Dean had ever come across. Even so, Dean was pretty good at matching faces to names and he knew he didn't have a name for the girl who just paid for an orange muffin.

He decided to forget about it and focus, instead, on Sam. _Glad to know I ain't the only one who's noticed he ain't been sleepin'. Hope Harry can get him to talk. Maybe he'll actually sleep tonight. Probably wouldn't be half so frustrating if he didn't wake me and Harry up every night. Doesn't even know he's doing it, either._ The girl took her muffin and turned around. Dean smiled at her, _Nope, don't know her, but still…I have seen her somewhere before._ The thought flashed through his head even as the girl started to return his smile, but blanched instead.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

The girl's large blue eyes widened even more and she slowly shook her head, "No, not really."

"What's wrong?" Dean stepped a little closer to her. _She looks like she's either gonna barf on my boots or pass out._

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, "Um…" She stepped backwards slightly. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," her voice was quiet enough that Dean could barely hear her and he was pretty sure that she hadn't meant to say it out loud.

"You'd be surprised what I can believe," he replied. The look on her face confirmed his suspicions. "Yes, you said it out loud." Dean glanced back at the counter, "Wait right here for a moment, okay? Then we'll talk."

While Dean ordered a dozen double-glazed donuts from the bakery, the girl edged closer to the door. With the box of donuts in hand, Dean turned around. _It's like she can't make up her mind to go or stay._ He walked over and opened the door, "After you."

The girl slipped through the opening and into the dully overcast parking lot. Her muffin seemed almost forgotten as it dangled precariously from her hand. Dean led them over to the Impala and sat the box of donuts on the hood. Leaning against the fender, he said, "So…what's got you looking like a rabbit with a hawk overhead?"

That seemed to catch her attention. "Pardon?"

"You know, twitchy. Nervous." Dean let a tiny smile surface. "Scared."

Some of her nervousness evaporated. "Why am I even talking to you? This is nuts," she turned to go, but Dean reached out and gently laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Hey," he said. "I won't bite, ya know."

"I don't even know you," the girl probably meant it to come out angry, but it sounded more resigned than anything.

"Easily fixed," Dean's smile grew. "I'm Dean Winchester. I'm a senior at UC-Berkeley, currently doing some research at the school here before classes start back up Monday."

"Trina," she sighed. "Trina Marshall and I'm losing my mind."

"Not the most interesting introduction I've ever heard, but intriguing." Dean's smile reached its maximum brightness as Trina chuckled nervously. "So, Trina, what had you looking like the time my youngest brother thought his term-paper got deleted before he had a chance to print it out?"

"You wouldn't believe me," she said. "I don't even know if _I_ believe me."

"Try me."

"I've seen you before," she spoke to her muffin.

Dean would have made a comment about how one muffin looks pretty much like another, but decided now wasn't the best time to be cracking jokes. "Believe it or not, but I think I've seen you somewhere before, too, but I can't place where."

"Oh, that's easy enough. I was in the news a couple of years ago."

Dean suddenly recalled his research at the library the day before. "Oh, that's right. You're the girl who had the heart transplant, right?"

Trina nodded, "Yeah."

"So, that explains that. But it doesn't tell me why you think you've seen me before."

"It's just…" she trailed off.

"Just what?"

"Completely insane," she said and turned to leave again.

"Hold up," he pushed off the side of the car and walked after her. "You can't just go and tweak a guy's curiosity and then leave him hangin', ya know. Besides, if you really _are_ as nuts as you seem to think, it won't matter none if ya tell me. I'm headin' back to school here shortly, and we won't see each other again."

Trina halted and her shoulders slumped a little. "I suppose there is that." She turned to face him. "Fine. You asked for it. I have a picture of you. You and four other guys. Looks like you were all out somewhere fishing or something. It's not a real good picture – it's printed out on computer paper – but it's good enough. Probably a pretty recent one, too, because you don't look any younger in it than you are now."

Before she could say any more, Dean interrupted, "It's me and my brothers, and our uncles. And it was this just-passed summer. How'd you get hold of it?"

"It's taped to the top of one of those little travel safes people keep important paperwork in. The box just showed up in my dresser one day, about two weeks ago now."

_The only way she could've gotten that photo was if Dad gave it to her, and if that safe contains what I think it does, then…Fuck. I think we're screwed._ While the thought unspooled in his head, Dean retrieved his wallet from his pocket. He flipped it open to a photo of his dad. "D'ya know him?" he held the photo so that Trina could look.

She peered at the picture, but shook her head. "He doesn't seem familiar. Why?"

"That's my dad," Dean replied, returning the wallet to his pocket. "He fell off the map about three weeks ago, and the last place we knew where he was heading was here. That research I mentioned? Yeah, me and my brothers are trying to figure out where Dad might've gone from here. And if you wound up with that photo, then we've got solid proof he was here."

"But that doesn't make any sense!"

"Don't make it untrue, though."

"This is insane."

"Welcome to my world." Dean scrubbed a hand across his face. "Hey, you obviously don't have that safe with you. How 'bout I follow you back to your place so you can run in and get it?"

Trina shook her head, "I didn't drive. I only live a few blocks from here."

"Then I'll give you a lift."

Five minutes later, Dean was waiting in the car while Trina retrieved the box from her bedroom. Ten minutes after leaving the bakery parking lot, Trina had returned. Any lingering doubt she may have had regarding Dean evaporated as he took the metal safe and eyed the lock. "Five digits," he muttered, then spun the combination. Trina noticed that it was 1-1-3-8-2. She wondered if it was a birthday.

Inside the box was a letter in an envelope marked 'Boys' and a beat-up, stuffed-to-the-brim leather day planner. Dean wasted no time in opening the letter. It only took a moment or two for him to read its contents. On finishing, he sat the letter back in the box and hit the steering wheel. "Damn it."

"What?"

He shook his head, "Not right now. Listen, things have just gotten far more complicated, and you're a big part of this. You have anything that needs doing today?"

"Um…Not really. Why?"

Dean glanced at the open safe on the seat next to him. He snapped it shut and turned to look back at Trina, who had been standing next to the open driver's side window since returning from the house. "You've been blacking out, haven't you? Losing time? Waking up in places where you know you didn't go to sleep?"

"How did you know that?"

"Want to stop doing that?"

"Of course."

"Then get in. We need to head over to the motel and talk with my brothers."

"What's going on?"

"I'll explain – I promise – but for now, you'll just have to trust me."

Trina wanted to back away from the car, but she didn't. She wasn't even sure why, other than she knew whatever she was going through couldn't just be a reaction to her medication. The safe was proof enough of that. Without another word, she walked around to the other side of the car and got in next to Dean.

* * *

**A/N2: **I don't claim to be an expert on anything medical, so most of what I mention that could be categorized as such should be taken with a large grain of rock salt. I do try to keep most of the medical crap somewhat realistic, but I'm not a doctor. Hell, I don't even like _thinking_ about some of the stuff I write about – just ask my mom, too much intel on medical-like things makes me turn green. I get most of my details from my RN mom and copious research (both on the web and through books), the rest falls under the headings of luck and no small amount of 'hey, this sounds plausible' skin-of-my-teeth BS. So, I suppose what I'm getting at here is that though I research, there's a very real possibility that my research isn't accurate or that I've inadvertently misrepresented something. If you know enough about the topics to find the places where what I've written doesn't _quite_ mesh with reality, I hope you can suspend disbelief long enough to get through the story.

Also, it seems as though Vince is liked more than Janie – which doesn't surprise me as much as I'd thought it might – and so I've got a decent direction in which to aim this fic. Thanks to everyone who sent in their opinions, I highly appreciate it!

Normally, I use this last bit of my chapter notes in order to beg for reviews. I'm not going to do that today. Kim Manners, one of the driving forces behind Show, passed away Sunday night (Jan. 25, 2009). He will, no doubt, be sorely missed by everyone. So, Mr. Manners, wherever you've managed to land yourself, this chapter (and the remaining chapters for this story) are for you – thank you for you contributions to our Show and to the whole genre of sci-fi television.


	9. Try to Get Back to the Start

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by Eric Kripke; various production elements including, but not limited to, Warner Brothers and the CW network. The title for this fic is a line from _Get Out Alive_ (© Zomba Recording, LLC & Sony BMG Music Entertainment & Three Days Grace. Track 7 of the 'One-X' album) and the title for this chapter is a line from _Ride On_ (© AC/DC & Albert Records. Off of the album 'Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap'). No money is being made from this intellectual exercise and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Thanks to the kindness of folks with scanners on LiveJournal, I've gotten to read the article in _Entertainment_ magazine on Show, and it's official – Kripke only wants five seasons of Show (and basically stated that there wasn't enough money in the world to make him stay longer than that). Both Jared and Jensen (the actors who play Sam and Dean) have made similar comments (adding on that they miss their family and friends). Sigh. I suppose I can understand the whole 'quitting-while-you're-ahead' sort of mindset, but…I don't want it to end, damn it! So, as of the completion of this chapter, there's twenty-six episodes of Show remaining, four in this season, and twenty-two for season five. Hopefully, something will happen and we'll get another few seasons (I know Jared and Jensen don't want to do this show forever, but…I wish they would). At the very least, I'd like a few movies after Show ends – who's with me?

Anyway, this chapter contains numerous scenes not focused on the boys – please don't kill me! I have to have set-up for later scenes happen somewhere!

* * *

**Run for Your Life**

_Try to Get Back to the Start_

_January 3, 2003_

"So good of you to join me," John grumbled under his breath, watching as the car he'd been waiting for _finally_ pulled to a stop in front of a run-down farmhouse in southeastern Montana. "I've only been waitin' on you for goin' on five goddamn hours now." He sat his binoculars on the passenger seat of his pickup and grabbed his heavy crossbow from the floorboard. The crossbow had been a Christmas gift from all three of the boys two years earlier and was about as perfect as a crossbow could get – it had a pump-action that would reload a bolt in a fraction of the time a traditional crossbow took.

John rolled down the window and carefully aimed at the tall, slender brunette who was climbing out of the '68 Studebaker that had definitely seen better days, as evidenced by the amount of rust spread across its once-yellow paint and the thick clouds of oily smoke that belched from the tailpipe until it was turned off. "You'd think livin' forever would lend itself to findin' better wheels," he muttered as he pulled the trigger. The bolt hit the man in his right shoulder, spinning him slightly even as he collapsed into the pile of snow lining the drive. "Or to bein' smarter, for that matter." Had the new arrival gone directly to the barn, John was sure he'd not have had as easy a time of hitting his target. "But if you were smarter, it'd make my job harder, so I ain't gonna complain." He exchanged the crossbow for his favorite machete.

Letting a grim smile surface on his face, he climbed out of his truck and crunched his way though the light timber, brush, and snow to where his quarry – dead though he might appear – snoozed on his makeshift cushion of snow. _Maybe now I'll be able to find some fucking answers._

* * *

The portkey deposited them precisely where it should and at the right time. These facts didn't stop Moody from greeting his visitors with his wand. Of the three visitors, only Hermione wasn't at all surprised. "Merlin, Moody, put that thing away before you accidentally hurt one of us."

"Prove you're who you're supposed to be," he replied.

Hermione sighed, "Are you _that_ eager to have your cooking problems bandied about?"

"That'll do." He stowed his wand. Had either of Hermione's two fellows known Moody as well as she did, they would have noticed the slightly sheepish expression that flashed across his face – but they weren't and so chalked the fleeting look up to something else entirely.

Hermione began speaking as Moody led his houseguests into the kitchen. "Dumbledore is pretty certain that the DEs aren't here after Harry. All the information we've been able to gather together points towards this being a recruitment party; the Malfoy estate holds a rather large mansion in the richest part of the San Francisco area – a little suburb by the name of Atherton – and we believe that Voldemort is beginning to send out feelers into the rest of the world."

Moody nodded thoughtfully, "Makes sense. The Hei-Luong and the Los Chacales both have strong followings here and both would be sympathetic to Voldemort's rhetoric. Any word on just who it is in the party?"

Hannah Abbott – a cherubically innocent looking, sturdily-built girl with strawberry-blonde hair smirked. "We've confirmation that Narcissa Malfoy, Eric Kriegel, and Emeric Lane are all part of the group. Unfortunately, there are at least five others that we weren't able to put a name to."

Moody nodded again. "Likely fresh recruits, then."

Terry Boot echoed the motion. "That's what Dumbledore thinks, too. He's sending a couple of representatives to speak with the Americans to let them know that the DEs are here. We're here –"

"To lend some additional security for Potter, just in case the intel he gathered proves false," Moody interrupted. He glared at the tabletop for several moments before clearing his throat. "Okay, so here's what we're going to do. Abbott, you're going to take the nine-to-three shift. Boot, you're up for the six hours following her. Granger, you're after that, and then it's back to me. I've got one of the rooms upstairs set up with the spells to monitor Potter's place, and this house shares the back fence with his. Currently, he and his two cohorts are off on one of their little vacations; the kids they've got house-sitting have mentioned that this time they're somewhere in New Mexico. If their pattern holds true, they'll be back sometime on Sunday."

During the following hour, Moody gave the three 'children' a quick run-down on how to operate the equipment he'd set up and informed them on where the bathroom was located and told them in no uncertain terms that they were to keep their hands off his popcorn stash. Before settling Hannah into her first go at watch, he also informed them that if the neighbors got too curious, their cover was that his granddaughter, her fiancé, and best friend were visiting for a while. After a quick discussion between the ladies, it was agreed that Hermione would play the role of the granddaughter.

* * *

"Breakfast!" Dean called out, somewhat unnecessarily as both his brothers were sitting less than twenty feet from the door.

"Ooh! Donuts!" Harry managed to ignore the entirety of the rather awkward conversation he'd just had with Sam when faced with the promise of still-warm bits of fried and sugared dough.

The box from the bakery disappeared from Dean's grasp before he could blink. "Yeah, you're welcome. Make sure the rest of us get some this time."

Harry made a string of muffled noise around a mouthful of double-glazed; knowing him, Dean figured it had equally likely chances of being either 'fuck off, these are mine' or 'move quicker next time, dork'. Considering Harry was hanging on to the box with a death grip, Dean was pretty sure it was the former. Dean shook his head at Harry before addressing Sam, "Get dressed, Sammy."

Sam poked his head through his clean t-shirt, "Isn't that what I'm doing?"

A couple of minutes later found Sam fully dressed and the box of donuts decimated. Dean figured it probably wasn't going to get any better and opened the door to beckon to Trina, who had been nice enough to agree to wait in the car until the coast was clear, so-to-speak.

"Who's this?" Sam asked, helping himself to the pot of motel coffee and a donut.

"Trina Marshall," Dean replied.

"And she's here because…?" Harry snaked the last donut from the box. Just before he was about to bite into it, he suddenly realized that yes, he did have manners. "Oh, did you want some?" he asked, offering the donut to the girl.

Trina shook her head, "No. Thanks, though."

"Have a seat," Sam offered, nodding to the smallish table on which numerous piles of paper were currently stacked haphazardly around their laptop computer. The look he shot at Dean clearly asked, 'Just what the _hell_ is going on?'

Dean shook his head ever so slightly and gestured to the small red metal box Trina was carrying. Out loud, he said, "I ran into Trina down at the bakery."

"And…?" Harry prompted, taking the other chair while Sam perched on the end of Dean's bed.

"And…" Dean trailed off, sighed, and finished with, "and that box is what we're looking for."

Harry took the box from Trina, saw the picture, and wordlessly passed it to Sam. Sam smiled a little at the photo before opening it. "Dad's logbook?"

Dean nodded. "And this," he held up the letter which had been inside the box.

"What's it say?" Harry and Sam managed the question simultaneously.

Dean simply handed the letter over. Harry and Sam crowded around it and read.

_Dec. 13  
Boys –_

_I'm sure it won't take long for you to find this, but then again I suppose it all hinges on how long Bobby and Remus can hold off on telling you that I haven't checked in with them in a while. My guess is sometime during Christmas break. Between that and the fact that when the three of you decide to put your heads together and do something, no matter how impossible, it tends to get done… Unfortunately, the same can't be said for me – Marshall's ghost possession problem is beyond my capabilities to deal with. I mean, how the hell am I supposed to be able to salt and burn that poor kid's __heart__? I figure between Remus and Sammy's research, Dean and Harry's wands, and Bobby's common sense, you all are in a better position to figure out how to get rid of the spook without killing the girl._

_Speaking of that damn ghost, I met up with it. It doesn't seem to be as tied to location as most of the others we've come across. Maybe that has something to do with what it attached itself to, the heart instead of bones or whatever else was out there. I don't really know, nor do I really give a shit one way or the other. I managed to talk with it, bluffed it into believing that I'd let it 'live' if it could answer some questions. The intel it gave me seems sound, but it's going to take a while to track down whether it's useful or not. I won't lie to you boys – this is likely going to be one of the more dangerous leads I've ever followed. That's why I'm doing things this way. I don't think Bobby or Remus would be all that happy if any of you three got hurt._

_Since I already figured that this case is more your area than mine, I figured this would be a decent place to leave this. The spook promised to make sure the safe got to you (I didn't bother telling it that you boys were going to be the ones to get rid of it). Don't worry about me, I'll check in by Dean's birthday at the latest._

_In the meantime, could one of you see if you can get Remus or Bobby to organize the damn journal? I took almost a full two hours trying to find the notes I needed last night._

_Before I forget, I found a few more weekend jobs for you boys. They're in the back of the book, slid in that folder pocket on the back cover. The one up in Oregon isn't urgent and Caleb mentioned something about having you three join him for Spring Break to take care of it – he said it was a group job, but knowing him, it's probably more likely he just wants an excuse to party. I don't think he's forgiven Sammy for beating him in darts last summer. He also mentioned something about Dean owing him $50._

– _John_

_P.S. Dean – I talked with Ben Ricardo a couple of weeks back and he's got a line on a V12 that'll fit the Impala. He wants you to call him if you're interested. – Dad_

_P.P.S. Sammy – Jo asked me to pass along a request to call her, something about college and scholarship applications. – Dad_

_P.P.P.S. Harry – Try to keep my boys in one piece, will you? At least until I can get back in touch with you all. – Uncle John_

* * *

John made sure the shackles holding his captive were tightly secured before using a hoist to lift the man towards the hayloft of the barn. He stopped pulling on the rope when the man's toes couldn't touch the ground and tied the rope to a peg in the wall. He'd removed the treated crossbow bolt from the guy's shoulder before stringing him up; it was now just a matter of time before the man woke up.

While he waited, John mused on his current situation. _Hope he's more willing to share what he knows than his mate was. Fuck, and I thought that damn ghost in Silver City was a bitch. What is it about death that turns women into bitches? Or is it that bitches tend to linger on past their expiration dates more than decent women?_ He sighed; there wasn't any use in traveling down that particular path. It didn't matter the _whys_, just the _hows_. _Whys_ were better left to people with more time on their hands than he.

_Ghost-bitch said to find Raban Luther in order to further my quest and now that I've found him, I hope this wasn't just a snipe hunt. Stop it, John. Ghost-bitch managed to prove she was a bit more in-tune with the greater scheme of things than your average spirit… Huh. I wonder if that has anything to do with being attached to her heart? I mean, the heart itself is still alive, even if the brain it was born to sustain isn't the one it's working for now. Note to self – after I'm done here, write to Bobby. Maybe he could find out whether or not that idea's got any meat behind it._ Just as he was finishing the thought, the man dangling from the hoist groaned.

John double-checked that he still had the syringes in his pocket. The machete was still strapped securely to his belt. "Wakey, wakey, you undead fuck." The man's lips moved soundlessly and his eyes fluttered in response. "Now, I know it's been a long time since breathing's been a necessary action for you, but here's a refresher: You gotta breathe _in_ before talking."

The brunette, whose ribs were clearly visible in the space between the hem of his ratty black t-shirt and his faded jeans, took a long, grating breath inwards and coughed several times. When the spell passed, he slowly opened his eyes and peered through his somewhat curly, lank brown hair. "Dead man's blood," he sneered.

John held up one of the syringes from his pocket, "And there's plenty more where that came from."

The man glared through the greasy tendrils of his hair. "You think that frightens me, hunter?" He coughed again and spat a dark wad of phlegm at John. "My nest –"

"Is dead," John cut the vampire off before it could say more. "And, unfortunately, they weren't precisely cooperative. Maybe you can learn from their mistakes."

"You're lying."

John shook his head. "You know I'm not. Take a whiff if you don't believe me – I haven't gotten around to cleaning up yet. You should still be able to smell their blood." The dangling vampire did just that and John could see the precise moment his captive was forced to face the truth. A barely-audible whisper of 'Kate' floated like a dust-mote in the icy air. John twirled the syringe like a miniature baton. "So, Luther. We gonna do this the easy way or the hard way?"

The vampire's head hung low on his chest. John was positive that if his arms hadn't been secured above his head, Luther's shoulders would have been slumped in defeat. "What do you need to know?"

* * *

Vincent was, once again, marveling at the weapons collection in the formerly-locked room on the second story of his friends' house while Janie headed back to her dorm room after some clean clothes. Where his grandfather's collection was focused mainly on guns, this collection was a roughly equal split between guns and blades, with a few other oddments like bows and even an honest-to-god flail. He'd seen the collections of a couple of his grandpa's friends while growing up, and knew that this collection even surpassed Peter Jurgson's, and that was saying something.

The more he looked over the collection, though, the more odd details presented themselves. The guns were, as a rule, practically squeaky clean and obviously well-cared-for. The blades, on the other hand, had several pieces which weren't brightly shiny. He was almost completely sure that the one sword was made of _wrought-iron_, and had it not been the wrong shape entirely, he might have been tempted to think it a fireplace poker that had inadvertently been added to the collection. There was another sword, somewhat shorter and a bit more curved than the iron one, which almost looked rusty – until he ran a finger along the edge and the 'rust' flaked off. _Is that…? Nah, can't be._

His eyes eventually found an interesting-looking dagger among the blades; it had an 'I'-shaped handle and the last third of the blade itself curved sharply to the side. It gleamed with a mellow serenity that made Vince pretty sure it wasn't merely silver-_colored_. Taking a closer look at the weapon revealed that there were numerous, almost microscopic carvings in the hilt; he thought they looked something like waves or maybe snakes. The dagger's sheath was similarly carved. On removing the blade from the sheath, one final carving showed itself. Vincent almost dropped the dagger when he saw it.

Etched into the blade, almost touching the handle, was a small circle. Inside the circle was a symbol he'd seen before – many, many times, in fact. "'And the third name is Marutukku'," he whispered, quoting Azra Bahar, the bass player from his junior high jazz band. She also just happened to be his first-ever girlfriend and the mere memory of her was enough to trigger a cascade of nostalgic memories, most prominent among them was the day they'd been practicing after school. He'd never liked staying after school – the building itself always seemed to be watching him – but it had never bothered Azra. That day, he'd asked her why, and she gave him one of her slow, secretive smiles and took off one of the many necklaces she always wore.

The pendant she handed him was only an inch or so across and had the same symbol on it that he was looking at now. "And the third name is Marutukku, Master of the Arts of Protection," she said, handing him the little silver circle. "Dad's a jadu-kar, he knows the dead don't rest easy here." He had made to hand it back to her, a question unvoiced on his face. She had shook her head, her thick black hair swayed around her face. "No, you keep it. I've got another one."

Shaking off the deluge of memory, Vincent forcibly brought himself back to the here-and-now. He slipped the dagger back into its sheath and wandered out of the room.

When Janie returned from her errand, she found Vincent stretched out on the sofa, staring intently at the little silver fob on his key chain. "Hey, Vinnie. Whacha doin'?"

Rolling his eyes at the nickname, he sat up. "Not much. Just remembering something."

Janie slung her backpack onto the floor next to the coffee table. Taking a seat where Vince's feet had lain, she asked, "Oh? What?"

He handed her his key chain. "My first girlfriend, Azra Bahar, gave that to me back in eighth grade. Said it'd protect me from the ghosts at our school."

Janie peered at the medallion, shrugged, then handed it back to Vincent. "So?"

"So…the guys have a dagger upstairs with the same symbol on it. I was just wondering what it meant, that's all."

"Why waste time wondering?" She nodded towards her laptop case leaning on the TV stand. "We can look it up."

Twenty minutes later, Janie was logged into the internet. "Okay, so do you remember anything else about it?"

Vince nodded, "Yeah. Look up 'Marutukku'."

A few minutes later, Janie sighed. "Sorry, all I'm getting is a bunch of screen names and profile pages. Anything else?"

"Jadu-kar."

"Can you spell that?"

Vince shook his head. "Nope. I know it's Arabic, if that helps. Azra's family was from Saudi Arabia."

She typed in several possible spellings before getting any results. "Well, that's something." Janie clicked on one of the search results. "It means 'a practitioner of magic'." Another search finally yielded useful information. "And…here we are. The symbol is for a pseudo-god of protection from _The Necronomicon_. Case closed."

"Wait a minute, what do you mean, 'case closed'?"

"_The Necronomicon_ is a _fictional_ book, Vince. Lovecraft invented it for his stories, kinda like how Rowling invented _Hogwarts, A History_ for hers. Obviously, that girl of yours was crazier than me if she actually believed in it."

"How do you know Lovecraft invented it? Wouldn't he have to have gotten the idea from somewhere?"

Janie looked, really _looked_ at Vincent. "Oh, my god. You actually think it's real, don't you?"

Vincent held his hands up, "Hey, all I know is what that little metal disk has done for me. After Azra had to move at the end of eighth grade, I quit wearing it – it was a necklace when she gave it to me – and the next year, when I started ninth at Nathan Hale High, some freaky shit happened. I started wearing it again, and the crap went away. After the cord broke, I put it on my keychain so I wouldn't lose it."

"It's your imagination, Vince. Just like all those people who have a 'lucky pin' or coin or whatever. You think it works, so it does." She set about shutting her computer off.

"Doesn't explain why the guys have a dagger with the same symbol on it."

Janie paused in stuffing the laptop back into its case. "You're joking, right? Jon Beumont in my calc class has one of those spiky things the klingons use in Star Trek. Ed Rein – that weird kid that works in the bookstore – he's got copies of the swords they used in filming the Lord of the Rings movies. It doesn't mean anything other than our friends are probably far geekier than we had assumed." She chuckled a little, "They hide it well, don't they?"

"Maybe, maybe not. I'm just sayin'…"

"What?"

"Well, if they hid that collection from us, what else could they be hiding? That symbol wasn't the only one I saw, but I know what most of the others are from that class on modern symbolism I took in sophomore year. The one thing they all had in common was protection."

"Oh, you mean the class Sam talked you into taking with him?"

Vince could tell from the smirk she wore that Janie thought that point proved her side of things more than it did his. "Yeah, that class," he replied. "I still think there's more to this."

"Whatever, Vince."

"I'd've thought you'd be more curious."

"About what? Sure, I was a little pissed at first, but…you said it yourself. That collection of theirs is probably worth a small fortune. I can understand why they wouldn't be sharing the fact they had it with everyone."

"Fine. How about a little wager, then? If I'm right, and there _is_ more to this than you think, you stop calling me Vinnie."

"I'm not wrong," Janie tightened her pink ponytail. "But since you insist, when you're proven wrong…hmm…what do I want? Oh, I know. When you finally find out I'm right, then you get to be my victim during the segment on motion-tracking in my 3D rendering course this semester."

Vince held out his hand, "You got a deal."

* * *

Not being in control of his own body was somewhat irritating, but Voldemort figured he could live with it. The demon – for yes, it was a demon – who was using him like a puppet was actually one of the few beings Voldemort actually _liked_. It helped greatly that the demon's goals and his own were mutually beneficial. _I wonder…is there a way to achieve the level of power of a demon without sacrificing much on my part?_

The demon controlling Voldemort's body let out a miniscule huff of amusement at the thoughts of his host. Though the demon could hear all of Voldemort's thoughts, the information stream was decidedly one-way. The demon had absolutely no intention of allowing his host to attain more power than was already at his disposal. The demon likewise had no intention of allowing Voldemort entrance to Hell, either – the mage was ambitious enough that he would quickly rise in the ranks; any residual humanity the wizard possessed had long been killed by his own hand and Hell didn't need any more wannabe-leaders. If things worked out well, the demon figured he'd grant his host's desire for immortality. If not, then he'd simply destroy the soul.

Now, had the demon been a little better informed as to the actual nature of just who was living with his current favorite, he likely would have restructured his plans accordingly – even demons had to comply with prophesy – but the demon in question never had liked red tape, and so he continued onwards with his plans.

* * *

**A/N2: **And so things grow ever more complicated. For my _Three Times…_ fans, rest assured I'm still working on it, but the musebunnies for this story were screaming loudest this week (and my recent lag in writing in general can be blamed on the fact that last week I had to have a wisdom tooth pulled – trying to write while in pain is a bitch). However, listening to my playlist on random yielded writing the scene from Demon!mort's POVs while listening to the Stones' _Sympathy for the Devil_ and Grateful Dead's _Friend of the Devil_ – serendipity, how I love thee!

Those of you who have seen _From Dusk Till Dawn_ will know what I was getting at with my descriptions of John's crossbow – it's a slightly beefier version of the one Kate uses in that film.

And the symbol on the dagger that sends Vince on his trip down memory lane can be viewed at:

second-sight-books (dot) com (slash) product (underscore) info (dot) php (question mark) products (underscore) id (equals sign) 241

Just copy and paste the address into your browser, removing the parantheticals and inserting the appropriate punctuation.

Reviews are to a fanfic writer what a lash was to the slaves of ancient Egypt.


	10. Every Silver Lining's Got a Touch ofGrey

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by Eric Kripke; various production elements including, but not limited to, Warner Brothers and the CW network. The title for this fic is a line from _Get Out Alive_ (© Zomba Recording, LLC & Sony BMG Music Entertainment & Three Days Grace. Track 7 of the 'One-X' album) and the title for this chapter is a line from _Touch of Grey_ (© The Grateful Dead & Artista Records. Off of the album 'In the Dark'). No money is being made from this intellectual exercise and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** I spent three hours sorting through census logs in order to find out which states had towns named 'Winchester' (or any variation thereof). I hope y'all appreciate it. Also, just a reminder that any opinions expressed by my characters aren't necessarily shared by myself.

* * *

**Run for Your Life**

_Every Silver Lining's Got a Touch of Grey_

_January 3, 2003_

Trina looked from Sam to Dean to Harry and back. All three were expecting something along the lines of 'you're crazy, there's no such thing as ghosts', and consequently were a little thrown when the first thing she did after they filled her in on the source of her lost time was to laugh. It was a desperate, hysterical sound, which she quickly managed to explain by addressing an imaginary resident of the room. "Oh, that's right, officer – it may have been this body who burned down those houses and killed those people, but it wasn't _me_." She rested her forehead on her palms, her elbows propped on her knees. "At least I'll get off by claiming insanity. Instead of spending the rest of my life in prison, I'll spend the rest of my life in a rubber room." Another irrational chuckle burbled out of her, "I wonder if that's a step up or a step down? All depends on what sort of shrinks I get, I suppose."

Sam and Harry exchanged a look while Dean said what was on their minds, "Okay…not _quite_ the reaction we were expecting."

Trina let out another desperate huff of laughter and looked over at Dean, who was perched on the dresser. "Just what were you expecting? I mean…" she sighed. "I don't know what I mean."

"It's just," Sam said, "that normally, most people tend to think we're a little nuts when we say the source of their problem is a ghost."

Trina shrugged. "I've never believed that this life was all there was. I mean, I _couldn't_ believe it, not when my life sucked so _hard_. You have any idea what it's like to grow up tied to an oxygen tank because your heart doesn't work properly? Or what it's like to have to be home-schooled because you spend more time in the hospital than you do at home?" She turned her attention to the tabletop, her fingers tracing meaningless patterns on its surface. "When we finally got word that there was a possible donor available, I cried for a full week, hoping for a comatose woman in New Jersey to die so I could finally see what this whole 'living' thing was supposed to be like."

The brothers exchanged uncomfortable glances. "I don't think the usual response to vengeful spirits is gonna work on this one," Harry said.

"No shit," Dean replied.

"What's the 'usual response'?" Trina asked, shifting her attention back to the guys.

Sam cleared his throat. "Well, in most cases, we figure out what the spirit's attached itself to and then said object gets treated with salt to purify it and then burned to remove the connection. Since the object in question this time isn't a lock of hair or a piece of jewelry or something like that, things just became immensely more complicated."

Trina paled drastically at the mental image of the three men she just met ripping out her heart to salt and burn it. Harry reached across the tiny table and squeezed her hand. "Don't fret. We'll figure out how to get rid of the ghost without resorting to drastic measures. We've got other options. The only real question is finding one that will work."

"Any way we can talk it over?" Dean directed his question at Sam. "That'd pro'ly be the safest option."

Sam's forehead scrunched in thought. "Maybe, but it depends on just why the spirit's sticking around. Based on the evidence of what she's been up to, I'd guess revenge. Revenge-oriented ghosts don't tend to be all that open to reason."

"Tell me about it," Dean grumbled, running a hand through his hair.

* * *

Though he could have shaved several hours off his driving time by taking the interstate, John stuck to the winding two-lane highways on his trip from Luther's place in southeastern Montana to a town about fifty miles northeast of Durango, Colorado. He couldn't help but smile as he passed a sign for Winchester, Wyoming. There were far too many photos back in that box at Bobby's place where on one trip or another the boys insisted he stop at yet another town named 'Winchester'. Until the boys started helping out on simple hunts, John'd had no idea how popular a town name that was. If memory served, the boys had started claiming particular towns as 'theirs'. Dean had claimed the towns in California, Arkansas, Idaho, and Illinois, while the ones in Indiana, Kansas, Kentucky, and Massachusetts had all been claimed by Sam. Both boys had consented to 'give' Harry the towns in Missouri, Nevada, New Hampshire, and Tennessee, since, to borrow Sam's reasoning from when he was twelve, 'Harry's a Winchester, it's just that his spelling's not all that great'. The three of them had agreed to 'share' the towns in Ohio, Oklahoma, and Oregon. According to the boys, John 'owned' the town in Virginia, simply by virtue of having been the only one among them to have ever visited that particular town – he had passed through it way back when he was still in the earliest days of his military career.

He glanced at his gas gauge as the town itself came into view and smirked to himself. Half an hour, a cup of coffee, and nearly fifty bucks in gas later, and his disposable camera sported one more photo for that box back home. _Hey, I've got two now. I'm starting to catch up._

Thoughts of the boys as kids invariably turned to thoughts of how they were handling the pile o'shit he left for them back in Silver City. He wondered if Remus and Bobby had called them yet, and if so, whether or not they decided to take the case. _Ah, who am I kidding? Those three actually turn down a hunt? After that whole thing three years ago where they took _turns_ going to class, just so they could finish tracking down that cursed pendant? Yeah, no way in hell. So, they definitely will take the hunt, once Bobby and Remus call them. Have to wonder just how they'll fix it, though. Ain't like they can just kill that kid._

John shook his head a little to derail the train of thought. _No sense in wondering. I'll find out when they're done, I'm sure._ He forced himself back to his current self-appointed task. _So Elkins has a gun that can kill anything. I'm almost positive I won't be able to get him to part with it – not that I'd blame him any – but maybe he'll let me get some photos of the damn thing. Wonder if he knows how it was made? If he does, then maybe, just _maybe_ we can make another one. Well, not 'we'. Bobby and Dean. Between those two, there isn't much I'd say was beyond their ability to build. Just like how if it's some obscure tidbit of intel I need, Sam and Remus will find it._

* * *

Vincent pulled himself up out of the depths of sleep to the smell of coffee. Glancing at the clock on the DVD player told him it was a little past nine in the morning. _Coffee? Already? Oh, Friday. Yeah. Janie works on Fridays 'til __noon__. C'm on brain, shift into go. Fuck. Need coffee._ Resigning himself to caffeine before rational thought, he made his way to the kitchen and the half-full coffee pot next to the sink. By the time he drained the last of it from the pot, he was feeling more like himself.

After a quick stop by the bathroom, Vince returned to the room o'kickass. He only spent a few minutes grinning at the collection displayed before sighing a little. _Looking isn't going to win me that bet._ Starting with the stacks of drawers and shelves under the horseshoe-shaped table, he set to work. He located innumerable little charms in one drawer, separated out into ziplock baggies. A particularly large drawer held dozens of boxes of white shotgun shells. On the shelves under the shortest end of the table, Vince found two reusable five-gallon water jugs made of clear blue plastic – inside both were strings of beads. Vince peered a little closer, sure his eyes were playing tricks on him, but no…_Those _are_ rosaries, aren't they?_ The shelf just under the water sported several bags of _Morton Ice Melt_. Another drawer yielded a cache of assorted lighter fluids, and the drawer just above that one held literally hundreds of paper matchbooks.

"Okay, this is some seriously fucked-up shit. What the _hell_ do the guys get up to? Or are they a bit more OCD than we thought?" Vincent didn't notice himself talking out loud. "I mean…fuck. I don't know what I mean. But I _do_ know that Janie ain't gonna take this as further proof that something's not fuckin' right." To Vince's credit, he did remember to turn out the light on his way out the room.

His next stop was the garage. With the previous exception of the room o'kickass, the garage was the only other 'room' of the house he'd never before entered. If he had been expecting something out-of-the-ordinary, however, he was disappointed. There was a second- or third-hand (to judge from the rust) lawnmower just inside and to the right of the door that opened to the walkway between the house and garage. Along the short wall to the left of the door were several tool-chests of varying heights and a battered desk with Dean's computer sitting on it. Though it was covered with a clear plastic cover, it was obvious that Dean had either built it or had decided to make several 'adjustments' to it – Vince wouldn't put either past the eldest Winchester. _Dean may hide it better than Harry and Sam do, but _damn_ he's a geek. And a tinker. Just can't seem to help himself from tryin' to make things work better. Like that time he 'fixed' my camcorder. Fucking thing has _night-vision_ now. Didn't when I bought it._

Sam's tall, yet seriously underpowered motorcycle took up the majority of the floor space. During a thunderstorm the month before, a pretty hefty tree branch had landed on the bike, causing all sorts of damage. From the looks of things, it appeared as though Dean had managed to straighten out the frame, but was still working on the engine itself. Had Vince any sort of knowledge as to the components of a traditional internal-combustion engine, he could have spotted several things that weren't _quite_ right with the motor, but his only knowledge of engines was limited to knowing that they ran on gas and needed oil.

Along the wall furthest from the door through which he'd entered the rectangular building was a lengthy workbench. Tools of every possible description littered its surface and hung from pegs on the wall. Interspersed with the pegs were a couple of schematic drawings. At least, that's what Vince assumed they were. They had a bunch of lines and symbols on them, along with math equations that made his brain hurt to look at for too long. If he had paid more attention to the other things his grandfather kept on hand, other than the man's extensive weapons collection, Vincent could have probably identified the miscellaneous tools on the bench which were used in manufacturing bullets and shotgun shells, but as it stood, his brain just glossed over them.

Figuring he washed out in the garage, he decided to give up for the moment and headed back into the house. Though he was tempted to go back to the room o'kickass and oogle the weapons some more, he figured he might as well buckle down and get that report for his advanced music theory class finished – _Um…'Started' might actually be a better fit there_ – especially since he'd begged to have until the end of winter break to hand it in.

Knowing Sam wouldn't care, Vincent hurriedly made a new pot of coffee and settled himself at Sam's desk. While waiting for the computer to boot, he dug his notes out of his bag and flipped though them to the page where he'd copied down the requirements for the paper he had yet to do. When Windows finally started up, he opened Word and got to work.

Three hours later, with a knot growing ever larger between his shoulders, Vince decided a break was in order. Particularly since lunchtime had come and gone unnoticed as he tried to come up with a _new_ way of comparing and contrasting the musical stylings of Bach and Beethoven. While waiting for a microwave pizza to finish nuking, his cell phone rang. It was Janie, letting him know that she was covering the afternoon shift, too, and wouldn't be back until six. The microwave _dinged_ just as he was returning the cell to his pocket.

He picked a pepperoni off the top of the pizza and popped it in his mouth as he returned to the study. He stared at the blinking cursor as he sat back at the desk. It was currently halfway down page six and seemed to be mocking him. _I hate writing. Really. I do. _He sighed and kicked back in the chair, settling his feet on the edge of the desk, and started gnawing his way through his lunch. As he was finishing the last few bites, his eyes drifted from the computer screen to the wall of bookshelves that stood across from the futon. From where he sat, he could read most of the titles on the spines of the books. Though he'd been in the study more times than he could count, he'd never really paid any attention to the books before, other than simply noting their existence.

Most of the books were pretty much what he'd expected – texts from classes the younger Winchester had taken, or books on the same topics – but there were a few titles that had him making WTF-faces. And then he saw it. A large book, shelved almost precisely in the exact middle of the wall, its title done in gold leaf down a dark leather spine.

Getting to his feet, Vincent crossed the room in a few short steps, and pulled the book from its place and tucked it under his arm. Curious, he checked to see if any of the books in which it was mentioned were on the shelves, but none were. _So Rowling made it up, huh, Janie?_ He smirked and sat the book on the desk, under his notes. He managed to force out a single sentence over the course of the following ten minutes before he gave up and called the college switchboard. Once the bored-sounding student worker had answered, he asked for the number for Kim Shandry – his freshman roommate's ex girlfriend.

The phone rang three times before the voicemail picked up, "You've reached Kim and Lisa's. We went home for the holidays and will be back the Saturday before classes start back up. If this is Jordan, we got a hold of Chris to housesit for us, so you can still drop by anytime to grab your stuff. Otherwise, leave us a message and we'll get back to you as soon as we can!"

Vince sighed and hung up as the voicemail beeped. "So much for that idea," he muttered. Returning to his paper, he managed another couple of sentences before he stopped and literally smacked himself on his forehead. _Dense much, Price? There's a reason why the internet exists, you know._

He minimized his paper and pulled up Firefox. After checking both Amazon and the Barnes and Noble websites, he found that his hunch had been right. The book currently residing under his pile of notes wasn't a tie-in for Rowling's books – which now numbered fifteen. _How anyone can possibly enjoy those is beyond me. Sure, I like a good murder-mystery, and I like fantasy, but those read like kid's lit. If you're paying attention to the first two chapters, you can always figure out whodunit way ahead of that whachamacallit-detective of hers._

Setting his notes aside, he picked up the book and just stared at it for a fair few minutes. The cover was like the spine, gold leaf on dark leather. _Hogwarts, A History_ took up the majority of the space, along with a small coat of arms, and no author was credited. The edges of the pages were likewise lined with gold leaf. It really was a very pretty book, and either it hadn't been read all that much or it had been obsessively cared-for. Knowing Sam like he did, Vincent figured it was probably the latter. The one and only book he'd ever seen Sam mistreat had been when he was taking a philosophy class and had to read Ayn Rand's _Atlas Shrugged_ – Sam'd used the book to start the end-of-the-year barbecue at the start of the summer between sophomore and junior years.

Idly, he flipped the book open to a random page, and looked down. The text was separated into two columns, and a small photograph sat in the center of the right page. It showed a large, rather ominous-looking forest. Vince looked at it for a moment before blinking slowly. _Are the trees _moving_?_ Figuring it had to be an optical illusion, he flipped several pages and stopped when another photo presented itself, this one of a painting of an old man sitting at a desk. The man in the painting blinked and then waived cheerily at Vince. Vincent yelped and dropped the book.

"No way that was real. I imagined it. Had to." He bent down and picked up the book, which had landed in such a way that it had closed itself. He stared at the cover again, not sure if he really wanted to open it. Sighing a little and mentally calling himself a pussy, he opened the book again, this time starting at the beginning.

Inside the front cover was a hand-written note, _For Remus, from Lily – now you can stop borrowing my copy!_ Under that, in a distinctly different style of penmanship, was _Please take good care of this, Sam. – Uncle Remus_. The title page was simply a black-ink reproduction of the cover itself, and still no author was credited. A table of contents followed, and then an introduction. Between the introduction and the start of chapter one was a two-page, full-color photograph of a large castle on a cliff, overlooking a lake and surrounded by mountains and forest. Ripples moved across the surface of the lake and the trees of the forest, as well as the colorful pennants on the castle, waived back and forth in the wind. It took almost a full minute for Vince to convince himself that it wasn't just an optical illusion – elements of the photo were actually _moving_.

He smirked a little and turned the page, his paper forgotten. _I think I've got that bet in the bag._

* * *

Sam and Trina were alone in the motel room – Dean and Harry had taken off to see just what sort of evidence the local cops had that might lead them back to Trina as the source of the recent fires and subsequent deaths in the area. Trina was stretched out on Harry's bed, staring at the ceiling, while Sam alternated between scribbling something in a spiral-bound notebook and looking through information stored on the laptop computer. Eventually, he sighed and picked up the telephone. He dialed in his calling-card number and pin, followed by the house number for the place back in South Dakota.

"Singer Salvage, Bobby here."

"Hey, Bobby. It's Sam. Is Remus handy?"

"Sorry, kiddo. He ran into town not five minutes ago. Whaddaya need?"

"This case…" Sam trailed off, not really sure how to say what he needed.

"Yeah. You boys find out what happened to John yet?"

"Sort of. We found his logbook – or rather, his logbook found us."

"Come again? How 'bout you start over, and this time, make some sense."

Sam chuckled a little. "Sorry. Dad left his journal with this girl, along with a letter letting us know what we're dealing with here."

"So what're ya dealin' with?"

"Ghost-possession –"

Bobby interrupted Sam before he could get any further, "Simple salt-and-burn, then?"

"If only," Sam's voice clearly showed just how irritated he was getting with his research and its lack of useful results. "What do you know of spirits haunting the recipient of an organ transplant?"

Bobby let out a low whistle, "Damn. That's what you're dealing with?"

"In a nutshell."

"Hmm… Can't say as though I know too much about it. From what I recall, I've only heard about it happening once before, but it resolved itself. The spirit had just wanted to make sure his kids would be okay and crossed over on his own after seeing that they were."

"I don't think that's going to happen here. From what we've found and that intel that sent Dad down here to begin with, this spook's nowhere near so altruistic. My take on it is vengeful."

"Hell, had to happen sometime. You know who it is you're dealing with? Maybe you'll be able to talk it over."

"No clue, but that is next on my list. What do we do if we can't talk it over, though? Most vengeful spirits aren't all that open to chitchat."

"Don't I know it. Couldn't hurt to try, though. I'll see what I can dig up, and when Remus gets back, I let him know the problem."

"Thanks, Bobby."

"No problem, kiddo. Just out of curiosity, what organ was it?"

"Heart."

"No shit? Damn, that must suck. The victim know what's going on?"

"Yeah. Took it pretty well, too. Didn't call us nuts, at least."

"First time for everything. I'll call you back if we find anything useful."

Sam smiled a little. "Thanks again. Talk to you later." He set the receiver back on the phone and sighed.

"Who was that?"

Sam turned around in his chair and looked at Trina. She was still staring at the ceiling. "Our uncle. I'm not really getting anywhere with the information I've got available, so he and Uncle Remus are going to see if they can find something to help us with this little problem." He took a moment to stretch his arms. "For now, when Dean and Harry get back, we're going to see if maybe we can talk the spirit into moving on. I'll be honest, though, it hardly ever works with this type of ghost. We might have a bit more success if we knew the name of the person it used to be."

Trina dragged her gaze over to Sam. "Sorry, I don't know who it used to be. It's up to the family of the donor if they want the identity to be kept secret."

"Figures," Sam muttered. "Wouldn't it be in your records at the hospital?"

Trina shrugged, "Might be, but I doubt it."

"Yeah, with the way our luck's running, I doubt it, too." Sam fell silent for a moment before letting out a little 'hmm' noise.

"What?"

"Maybe there's another way."

"How?"

"If we can't find out who it was by starting with you, let's start with them and see what we find."

"_What_?" Trina sat up. "You're confusing me."

Sam shook his head, and started speaking quickly. "No, look, you said before that you'd spent a week waiting for a woman in New Jersey to die, right? And organs have to be harvested immediately, right?"

Trina nodded to confirm both questions. "How does this help you find out who it is, though?"

Sam grinned and grabbed his pen and notebook. "Because now we've got a place to start looking. What was the date of your operation?"

"First of January, 2001," Trina replied, crossing the short distance to join Sam at the rickety table. "You really think you can find out who this was?"

Sam nodded, "I think so. Do you remember anything else that might help me out here?"

Trina started to shake her head, but then nodded. "Well, I don't know if it will help, but the reason I had to wait so long was because I'm a mirror. A couple of times, we thought we had a possible donor – tissue matched and all that – but it wouldn't have worked because they were normal."

"A what?"

"A mirror – all my organs are mirrored from where they're supposed to be. Liver's on the left, heart's on the right, and so on. It's technical name is dextrocardia situs inversus totalis."

"That's a mouthful."

"I know. It's why I generally use the 'mirror' thing."

"Anyway," Sam turned his attention to the computer, "I don't see how it can hurt. At this point, any information is a good thing."

* * *

Voldemort was currently enjoying having full control of himself for a change. That demon had disappeared nearly three hours earlier without so much as a word of explanation. Voldemort knew the demon was a little frustrated at not being able to locate whoever it was that he was looking for, but that didn't much matter to the wizard – he knew from listening to the demon interacting with the Death Eaters that Potter was somewhere in the area. _I'll get him yet._ And so, when the demon disappeared, the first thing Voldemort did was to call those followers who had accompanied the demon to the US to him. Once they were all assembled, he split the ten into two unequal groups. The larger group had eight people in it, and he assigned Eric Kriegel to lead it. The smaller group of two was to locate Potter. Kriegel's group was to research power-amplification rituals which needed the use of a demon.

After dismissing them to their respective tasks, one of the masked Death Eaters lingered. He could tell it was Narcissa Malfoy, just by how she stood. "Narcissa?" his voice was honey-smooth.

"Milord…it has occurred to me that perhaps you might want to see about contacting the Hei-Luong while we are here. They have expressed interest in our goals in the past and would be a powerful set of allies for you."

Voldemort smiled, the expression somehow malformed on his face, even though his features were barely beginning to skew from the dark magics he wielded – at this point, since regaining the body of his sixteen year-old self, he was still a handsome man. "Come here, Narcissa."

Knowing it wasn't a good idea, but doing so anyway, Narcissa approached the wingback chair behind the heavy wooden desk of her husband's seldom-used office (she had often wanted to redecorate it to something more suited to a _vacation _home). "Yes, milord?"

"I am well aware of how the Hei-Luong and Los Chacales could possibly benefit our grand design for the wizarding world. However, now is not the time." His wand was in his hand before Narcissa could even blink. Even through the pain of the Cruciatus, she saw that his smile never faltered.

* * *

Azazel, though he knew they were his best bet for getting to Sam Winchester, hated the fact that he had to deal with wizards. _Not a one of them has any sense. All the power and ambition in the world isn't going to do them a bit of good if they can't execute a simple plan. It would help if they could get it through their heads that magic isn't the be-all, end-all of power, too. Tom's been searching for this Potter kid for years, but hasn't made any headway at all. It's like they've decided that anything the normals have come up with aren't worth their time just because it isn't magic. Amateurs._

The gas station clerk he was currently riding had a decent working knowledge of how to find someone, and so after a measly fifteen minutes, the demon had the address he needed (courtesy of that non-magical bit of innovation called a _phonebook_) and to celebrate, he decided to torture a few normals. The clerk's family ought to do for a start.

* * *

**A/N2: **In this 'verse, the Harry Potter novels don't exist (of course), but I figured that it'd be fun to have Rowling exist. So, I have her writing a series of detective novels based in a 'fictional' version of the wizarding world (surely they've got their own fiction). They were interesting enough that the novels leaked out to the muggle world and became something of a cult smash, and so everyone's heard of them (though not everyone enjoys them – much like the Potter books in our own world).

Oh, is anyone else having trouble uploading here? I keep getting an error message that says they can't convert my file (which is, as always, a dot-doc or dot-rtf file). I got sick of it, and know that contacting support takes forever, so I just opened one of the docs I've got in my manager and copied and pasted the new chapter over. There wasn't anything on the upload manager being down for repairs on the main page, so I'm a little lost. Hopefully, this issue won't still be an issue when I go to post another chapter.

Reviews are shiny, you know.


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